


to be remembered

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Series: to be remembered [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Punk England (Hetalia), music references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: Everyone wants to be remembered for something great, something they’ve achieved in their lives. Everyone wants to be remembered for who they are, and who they want to be.But not Arthur Kirkland—he wants to be forgotten. And as the clock ticks to the inevitable end, he meets an American who shows him just how much he secretly wants to be remembered.





	1. z e r o

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bridge Over Troubled Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7175549) by [merakily (fengbi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengbi/pseuds/merakily). 



> this is part of the 'to be remembered' duology. I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers, nor its characters; that right belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. 
> 
> thank you, and I hope you enjoy.

z e r o

_« w h a t d o y o u w a n t t o b e r e m e m b e r e d f o r ? »_

At the end of every lesson in History class, Mr. Romulus Vargas was known for assigning a mandatory essay—but there was a catch. It was that the theme wasn’t exactly in correlation with the topic discussed, but was always a simple, thought-provoking question. 

And so half a month after Arthur Kirkland transferred into World Academy, on the last fifteen minutes of their last discussion on the Second World War, Mr. Vargas posed the following question, the words written in plain writing along the white board.

_'What do you want to be remembered for?’_

Arthur gazed at the sentence, at the stark black lines forming its existence, before he turned his attention towards the paper he’d drawn out from his bag. He was an exemplary student, in spite of his uncharacteristic manner of dress—what was wrong with showing up to school in a black long-sleeved shirt advertising his favourite bands, and pairing that with ripped jeans and combat boots, he couldn’t say that he didn’t know the answer, since he purposefully chose to dress in said attire since _that_ day.

Today’s question had an easy answer, as unorthodox as it would seem to people other than the Briton. Not even three minutes later, he’d set down his pen and turned his paper face-down on his desk. 

He could hear his seatmate make a noise of surprise, which he ignored in preference to adjusting one of his earphones as he pressed _‘Play’_ on the surface of his phone, hidden beneath his desktop. Arthur let his attentiveness fade, idly casting his gaze towards the heads of his classmates who sat before him, all preoccupied with finishing their respective essays.

His stare flickered from the silent Japanese boy sitting near the front of the classroom, who was reading some kind of paperback comics beneath his desk, towards the normally loud-mouthed American seated right in front of him. The boy was hunched over his essay, muttering words to himself as he mulled over what to write.

Arthur almost snorted at the effort the boy was exerting on an essay. Instead, he simply leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. Absently, he ran two fingers along his left wrist, careful not to disturb the sleeve of his shirt, else it might move the bandages he’d carefully wrapped underneath. His eyes fluttered open, revealing acidic green irises as he warily removed his hand from his wrist, as though he’d been burnt.

It was a bad habit he’d picked up, but couldn’t seem to get rid of. The way he always ran his fingers along the inside of his wrist… As if he were tracing another route for the blade to cut into again—

The Briton jerked upright in his seat as the bell rang, and frantic calls of extra time were said. He allowed himself to scoff lightly as several honor students hurried to proofread their essays, before an amused Mr. Vargas called them to pass their papers.

Arthur did so without complaint, handing his piece to the American in front of him— _Alfred F. Jones,_ if he recalled correctly. Alfred took the paper, scanning it with those blue eyes, which widened after he finished skimming the piece.

He looked up at the sandy blond boy, “Dude, why didja write just _two_ sentences for the essay?”

The addressed male scowled at the butchered English, gesturing for the American to pass the paper. “That’s none of your concern. I wrote my answer to the question—it didn’t necessarily need any further explanation.”

Alfred didn’t seem to think the same. “But _dude—”_

“Kindly refrain from calling me ‘dude’. I have a _name,_ you obnoxious git,” Arthur snapped as he stood from his seat, grabbing his bag along the way. “And I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

With that, the Briton strode out of the classroom, leaving the baffled American in his seat.

**—**

_Arthur Kirkland  
Class 3-A_

_“What do you want to be remembered for?”_

__

__

_**Nothing. I don’t want to be remembered.** _


	2. o n e

o n e

_« w h y  d o  y o u  w a n t  t o  k n o w  w h o  i  a m ? »_

__

__

_'"Who am I?"_

_'"Only you can know who you are, child; no one else can command you to become someone you are not. You are, at your innermost core, who you truly are—only you can know, only you can choose to bare your truest self to the world."_

_'"And if I do bare my true self? What then?"_

_'"The world is beautiful, but cruel. It does not know us, in the same way that we do not know its truest extent. To bare one's true self—to bare one's heart—makes us vulnerable. If you bare your true self to the world, there is no telling to the extent of the pain you will go through. I tell you, my child, only bare your truest self to the one that you love, the one who can accept who you truly are."'_

He blinked tiredly at the screen, the light reflecting off of his reading glasses. With a huff, Arthur shut off his laptop directly after saving and closing the file. He pinched the bridge of his nose, blindly pulling off the glasses and placing it atop his nightstand. 

Green eyes gazed at the ceiling, glazed over in thought as they idly followed the white pinpricks which were supposed to resemble the stars in the night sky. He'd long finished his homework, the papers neatly tucked into his binders, which were, in turn, carefully stashed into his messenger bag. _That_ wasn't the problem, nor was his elder brother's distinct absence from his own house.

Arthur had met Antoinette, Camden's wife and his sister-in-law, as he'd tried to silently stalk up the stairs as soon as he'd come back to the house that afternoon. Or it was more that Antoinette, the French bitch she could be, successfully ambushed him after fifty tries ever since he'd traveled across the pond to live with his brother and his wife, and had persuaded him to join them for a disastrous dinner. (A cynical Briton forced to sit before an eccentric French woman do not a successful heart-to-heart over dinner make.) 

The problem was that, as much as Arthur tried, he couldn't seem to get rid of that _look_ in the American boy's eyes during that History class. There was incredulousness there—that was already a given—but what bothered the Briton was the smallest glint of sadness he'd managed to get a glimpse of in that tiny moment that their eyes met. 

He didn't understand _why_ that bothered him—after all, he didn't know the boy personally, aside from the occasional rumours he overheard. 

_"Alfred F. Jones,"_ he muttered under his breath, the name rolling off of his tongue. The American was rather popular in the campus populace—both with the females and males, what with the widespread _'fact'_ that the boy was bisexual. (Although, with hearsay from the popularity-crazed teenagers who went to World Academy, Arthur could only take what they said with a grain of salt.)

A stereotypical all-American cliché—high school American football quarterback, energetic, and an everyone-loves-me kind of bloke, from the Briton's occasional _(unintentional)_ eavesdropping on the rumour mill. But there were odd occurrences: the first was that the boy—now a Junior, like Arthur—had quit the football team the school year before, when he was a Sophomore, after building up a reputation of being the 'Golden Boy' of the academy. (Or, as Arthur could gather from what he heard through the grapevine, as the 'Crown Prince' of the social hierarchy.) 

It only proved to become even stranger by the fact that no one really knew what the true reason was behind the sudden—and completely unexpected—event. The second odd occurrence was that Alfred F. Jones seemed to join the so-called _'Suicide Squadron'_ shortly after what was widely known in the campus as _'The Tragedy'_ and _'The Apocalypse'._

The third was that no matter how _much_ Arthur tried to dig deeper into the true essence of those two events, he couldn't get a _single_ clue from every student he came across. Each one had their lips zipped tight, and immediately left after he posed the question.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy blond hair. 

What a troublesome web of mysteries.

**—**

In World Academy, there were three unspoken rules which every student—both in the Social Hierarchy and out of it—already knew by heart, and the corresponding punishments labeled to each. 

The first rule: _Each student must be subject to one caste only._

There were two primary castes: the Royals and the Commoners. The Royals consisted of the highest-ranking in the Hierarchy, and were made up of the most popular and the richest students. The Commoners were neutral students, or those who were average in everything a high school student considered to be important: looks, luxury, and intelligence. The Commoners were the middle class in the Hierarchy.

The second rule: _No student should ever associate with one who is not from their own caste without permission from the King._

To be allowed communication with a Royal for a Commoner was treated to be a special privilege. There was a strict criteria that the current King of the Hierarchy, Ivan Braginski, followed, and thus there were limited allowances for a student to mingle with someone who wasn't from their own caste.

And the third: _Associating with the Suicide Squadron or anyone rumoured to be in cohorts with the Bad Touch Trio will immediately be punished._

These were the three unspoken rules of World Academy—and Arthur Kirkland, being a newcomer to the lions' den, unwittingly branded himself a _'Rogue'_ as he broke the rules.

**—**

"Say, Arthur, why do you _always_ want to remain anonymous?"

The addressed Briton turned around, catching the stare of the green-eyed brunette. He offered a polite half-smile as the girl tapped at the printed sheets of the articles he had left upon her desk for her perusal. 

"It's better this way." He said, and the girl—Elizaveta Héderváry, the Editor-in-Chief of the campus paper—frowned heavily. She stood from her seat, sweeping up the papers to wave them in front of the mildly startled Briton as she approached him.

"Don't you know how many of the students love the works you've been submitting to the paper ever since you came in that first week?" She demanded, advancing towards the uneasy Briton, who backtracked a step with each inch she moved forward. 

He remembered the first time he'd gone to the school paper office with remarkable clarity. (And an underlying embarrassment.) 

It had been the Friday afternoon of his first week at World Academy, just after his final class for the day. He'd planned to spend it the way he had the entire week after school: hiding out on the rooftop of the main building, writing and discarding what he wrote until the sun lingered just above the horizon in the few moments before it finally sunk and gave way to the night. 

Arthur never liked to go back to his brother's house; the layout of the entire edifice reminded him too much of their home back in England. Camden had even tried to recreate the look of Arthur's own bedroom back at the old house, perhaps to alleviate the _'homesickness'_ the teenager didn't have. But there were too many memories lingering in every nook and cranny which resembled the old house, too many voices crowding his mind and begging his attention.

_Too many regrets he could never erase._

So he spent as much time at the campus until he was forced to go back to the house. And that afternoon, as he was heading out of the main building, he met Elizaveta, who had been locking up the school paper clubroom. Or it would be more accurate to say that he _literally_ bumped into her, and the impact sent his papers flying every which way. 

He had apologized, of course, and had almost regretted doing so when she grabbed him by the shoulders and screeched, _"I found you!"_ (Later, Arthur would realize that she had found out from whom the anonymous poem he'd left at the school paper office's submissions box earlier that week came from due to the similar handwriting both pieces—the one he'd left and the one she was clutching that day—had.)

"Your poems alone garnered so much _praise,_ Arthur," her voice quieted, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. When Elizaveta got going, it was extremely difficult to stop her. "Why don't you want _anyone_ to know who's the writer behind these beautiful pieces?"

The brunette held up one of the articles, and Arthur glanced at his own looping script.

_"I wait on these shores for one who'll never come back;  
I wait beyond seas, beyond oceans of tears I lack."_

__

_"'And I turn away from hope, from hope that's gone,'"_ Elizaveta whispered, as the Briton looked away, _"'And I turn to these lands, where forever I wait alone.'"_

"It's better this way," Arthur repeated firmly. "Who would _want_ to know someone like me, lass?" 

_Who would want to know someone who's given up on himself long ago?_

The Hungarian girl smiled, and she turned around, walking towards her desk, upon which she perched herself with a knowing grin. "Oh, you never know, Arthur." 

She jutted her chin in his direction, to which he elegantly raised a brow in questioning. Elizaveta merely grinned even wider, raising a hand and waving towards someone in the boy's general direction.

"Hello, Alfred!" 

Arthur immediately turned around, and guarded green eyes met with amused blue. He forced himself to maintain his usual façade, crossing his arms across his torso as he regarded his fellow Junior.

The American strode into the room, nodding his head in recognition to the only girl in the room with a bright grin. "Hey, Liz. Mattie's been looking for ya'; apparently, he needs your help with keeping a tight leash on the BTT _again."_

The Hungarian sighed, shaking her head as she hopped off of her desk, smoothing out her black _Fall Out Boy_ tee, which was paired with a checkered skirt and ankle-high boots. (Arthur internally approved.) "Let me guess: Gil's at it again with some of the Royals, isn't he?" 

Alfred nodded, stopping just a yard or so away from the Briton with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket. "Pretty much." He agreed, tilting his head in the direction of the door. "Also Franny's been flirting with the King's sisters _again,_ while Toni... Well, I haven't seen him anywhere today." 

"When will that French _idiot_ learn that Natalya can turn his skinny ass into a freaking shish-kebab?" Elizaveta grumbled as she slung her bag over her shoulder, stomping her way to the door. (The Briton carefully kept his distance.) She turned to look at the two, tipping her head in the direction of the door. "Better get out while I'm still here; the lock on this door's been busted for a while now, which means that if somebody closes it with too much force, anybody who's still inside might get stranded for hours, and you _do not_ want that to happen to you. Just ask Kiku—that happened once." 

Arthur immediately sped out through the doorway, waiting for the Hungarian to follow suit as Alfred did the same. He kept his head turned away as Elizaveta passed by with a wave, which he returned, rather reluctantly. 

He made to walk away, perhaps go up to the rooftop if he still had time, when the American reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, abruptly whirling around on his heel to face the boy.

"What was that—"

_"'Who would want to know someone like you',_ huh?" Alfred said, and Arthur narrowed his eyes, shoulders hunching defensively. The damn American had the nerve to listen in on a _private_ conversation. 

"What's it to you?" He uttered calmly, his tone of voice betraying the underlying current of tension which threaded through his taut muscles. It had been one of his few moments of weakness, a question of bitterness he'd unknowingly let slip in front of the only person he considered an acquaintance in this school, and now this enigma—this _Alfred F. Jones_ had overheard him. 

He couldn't have been more careless. 

Alfred was a mystery—a mystery he was in the process of unraveling, and perhaps in doing so, he might unravel the mystery about himself that he tried so hard to protect.

He couldn't let anyone know who he _really_ was.

"Well.. I guess you could say that _I_ want to know _you."_ He smiled, and still Arthur remained tense, unable to relax.

"Why?" He finally managed after a brief moment of silence which stretched between them. "Why do you _want_ to know who I am?"

Alfred only smiled wider.

"That's for _me_ to know, and for _you_ to find out, _Artie."_

It was when the American had started to walk away that Arthur let loose an outraged shout at the bloody insufferable nickname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> Camden Kirkland — OC! Scotland  
> Antoinette Kirkland (neé Michel) — Nyo! France


	3. t w o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses

  
t w o

_« w h y  d o  y o u  t r y  s o  h a r d  t o  b e  f o r g o t t e n ? »_  


He found him standing before the grave.

It was an oddly lukewarm night for Autumn, edging into Winter, but the boy didn't care about that. He and his 'squad' had been out and about as soon as school ended, trying to find the missing piece to their regular meetings. 

Twigs and dried leaves crunched beneath the soles of his combat boots as he navigated his way through the rows and rows of graves, heading towards the lone silhouette in the distance. He huffed, his breath pouring from his lips in a small puff of air, which seemed to condense in the cooling atmosphere before it faded into mere wisps once again. 

"Al told me that you got into another fight with the Royals again, _amigo."_

The boy snorted, pushing his leather gloved hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, tipping his head just enough to watch the night sky with dark crimson eyes. A gust blew all around them, stirring the leaves beneath their shoes, messing with the ivory fringe of the albino. 

"It was their fault. You can't blame me for not tolerating their bullshit, Toni." He grumbled, gaze skimming the skies, picking out the constellations he'd learned long ago—when their infamous group hadn't officially been formed yet, when his friend was still happy and in love. "Braginski says hi, by the way. Psycho's got a screw loose somewhere in that chip of ice he calls a brain."

A brittle laugh emitted from the latter of the two, a boy with dark curly hair and sad green eyes. "That's not nice, Gil. Ivan didn't do anything wrong to us."

'Gil' huffed once again, crossing his arms across his torso with a scowl. "That's complete and utter _scheisse,_ and you know that as well as I do. If it wasn't for that _verdammt_ Hierarchy, _he'd_ still be alive and you wouldn't be wasting away in front of his grave marker. Cut the bullshit, Antonio."

"But he wouldn't want me to be angry," 'Antonio' replied softly. He looked at the grave once again, pressing trembling fingers atop the marble, upon which a name was etched—a name which was deeply etched into every one of their hearts, which made them remember every memory until that dreaded day. "He wouldn't want me to be angry without a reason."

"Screw _reason."_   The albino snapped. "Those bitches in that fucking Hierarchy didn't ask for a reason, a _justification_ before they hurt him, before _they drove him to the edge._ If it's _reason_ you want, then we fucking have a _legitimate_ one—if it wasn't for them, if it wasn't for their _verdammt_ prejudice, then don't you think Lovino would still be here with you and not six feet under?!"

They both remained silent after the outburst, listening to the slight murmurs of the trees bordering the very edges of the cemetery they stood in. And Antonio turned to look at his friend, wiping away the tears which had long gathered in his green eyes, ignoring the now cold wind which nipped at his tan cheeks, and he smiled like he used to.

"I can only remember him, because that's all I can do. If I remember, then he's still alive in my memories, in my heart." He said, casting his gaze upon the name written upon the grave marker. 

"Because one only truly dies once you forget."

**—**

_They were singing, laughing, joking around._

_His father drove, his mother sat beside him in the shotgun seat and occasionally turned the volume up, his little brother was being the little bugger he was. His mother switched the stations at just the right time, and the riffs of_ "Sweet Child O' Mine" _by Guns N' Roses came on the radio. Almost as if it were reflex, the four of them looked up, glanced at each other, before identical grins spread across their faces._

_It was tradition in the Kirkland household—each of the children knew their parents' favorite songs by heart. And whenever the songs came on the radio, they all sang._

"'She's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories,'" _their father sang first, glancing at his wife with a cheeky grin, to which she laughed and playfully slapped him on the arm._ "'Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky.'" _He smiled, glancing up at the mirror which reflected his sons' amused faces,_ "Your turn, Arthur."

"'Now and then when I see her face, she takes me away to that special place,'" _he sang, almost reluctantly, but soon regained confidence as he chanced a glance at their parents' approving looks,_ "'And if I stared too long, I'd probably break down and cry.'"

_They all joined in the chorus, Peter singing as loudly as he could._ "'Sweet child o' mine, sweet love of mine.'"

_They were happy, free from worries—_

_But he should have known that it wouldn't last long._

He sat up straight in bed, digging the palms of his hands against his temples, fingers clawing at the locks of his disheveled blond hair. He was gasping, pulling in as much oxygen as he could direct through his airways into his lungs in short, shallow breaths as tears pricked at his wide, wide eyes, which strained to make out anything in the oppressive darkness. 

Arthur hurried to disentangle himself from the sheets which were tangled around his legs, fully aware of the chilly night air stinging his bare torso as he clambered over towards his nightstand, fumbling for the switch of his lamp. He found it after several tries, clammy fingers sliding against the polished porcelain, before warm, almost summery yellow light poured into the limited space between his bed, the nightstand, and his desk, upon which his laptop still lay, a small flickering dot indicating its already full battery.

He had those dreams again, he internally grumbled to himself. When was he ever going to forget that day? When was he ever going to let go of the regrets he still harbored until now, more than six months after that _'accident'? ___

__"The day I forget would be the day I finally die." He whispered to himself as he slid to his knees beside his nightstand, his trembling limbs giving in to the combined pull of gravity and exhaustion. With a grunt, he pulled open the drawer of his desk, feeling for the hidden package he'd taped to the underside. He successfully pulled out a small blade, one of the many he hid in various places—either on his own person or in well-concealed spots in his own bedroom._ _

__With careful maneuvering, the Briton managed to sit himself against his nightstand and his bed, knees drawn up to his chest, his left arm free from the constraining bandages which hid his scars and his right hand—armed with the blade—poised to carve another into his flesh. Arthur looked over his current 'collection', so to speak, gaze numbly skimming over the angry lines, some red and still raised, a few already in the process of healing. All were, however, arranged in morbidly ruler-straight rows, seemingly in almost equal distances from each other, with similar lengths. The only differing factor was the depth of every cut._ _

__But he couldn't bring himself to care about the look of it. He already knew wrists with scars weren't _pretty—_ and he wasn't necessarily doing this for the somehow morbid aesthetic quality of it. No, he was doing this because physical pain was a far better alternative than to face the agonizing war he had deep inside of him. _ _

__He was doing this because he didn't deserve to be remembered._ _

__Arthur braced himself against the bed, leaning slightly against the wooden frame as he slowly lowered the blade, letting the sharpened edge cut into his skin. Beginning the cut was always a bit startling, the jolt of pain seeping into his relaxed muscles making itself known as he dug even deeper, slowly but surely pulling the blade across the length of his wrist. He'd wait for a few seconds, watching the blood—tiny little beads of crimson which coalesce into a tiny little rivulet the length of his cut—slowly stream down his pale skin and drip onto the fabric of the carpet below him before he'd lift the end of the blade, move it a couple of centimeters to the left of the recent cut, and repeat the process again._ _

__By the time he'd be brought back from the depths of his nightmarish conscious, there would be at least three new cuts adorning his flesh, and he would be aware of the constant trickle of liquid—tears from his eyes, blood from his cuts._ _

__This time, however, when he surfaced from his so-called trance, there weren't just three cuts—there were five, crisscrossing across his previous cuts so they tore open a little more. He couldn't even see much of his own pale skin—all he could see was the blood, flowing along his wrist._ _

__He didn't care._ _

__He didn't care as he numbly picked himself up off of the floor, still holding the bloodied blade in his free hand as he made his way to the adjoining bathroom to his room. Arthur watched, almost fascinated, as he turned on the faucet, letting the tap water flow freely and wash away the blood which streamed from his cuts. He let himself be lost in the familiar movements: clean, disinfect, bandage. He'd done this so many times it was already routine._ _

__And he knew that he wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon._ _

__**—** _ _

He stepped out into the fading sunlight, having successfully escaped the after-school rush of the other students once again. He'd avoided Elizaveta after the events of the day before, not wanting to see her again unless it was absolutely necessary. (And honestly, she was terrifying when it came to submitting articles—only then did Arthur voluntarily go to personally submit his own, for the Hungarian girl was no joke when it came to blackmail. He still didn't understand how she had access to the security cameras around the school, and he was certain that he didn't want to know the answer.) 

The Briton gazed up at the skies, which were painted with the hues of the setting sun: crimson, tangerine and pale yellow, with the midnight blue of the night lingering at its edge, waiting for its turn to take over. He closed his eyes, feeling the strong, almost wintry wind brush its fingers all over his lithe form, whispering indiscernible secrets into his ears. 

He savored the moment he could be alone. 

_"'She's got eyes of the bluest skies, as if they thought of rain,'"_ he sang softly as he leaned against the railings, gazing out into the dwindling crowd of World Academy's students as they headed towards the gates and out into the town. _"'I'd hate to look into those eyes, and see an ounce of pain.'"_

Which was why, when Arthur heard the door to the rooftop close behind him, he immediately whirled around on his heel, acidic green eyes narrowing as a now-familiar figure made his way towards him with a peculiarly serene smile on his face and a voice he immediately recognized began to sing the next verse. 

_"'Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place, where as a child I'd hide. And pray for the thunder and the rain, to quietly pass me by.'"_ He was smiling, as if he was remembering something he longed for. _"'Sweet child o' mine, sweet love of mine.'"_

"What are you doing here, Jones?" He asked, carefully keeping his tone level and determinedly unaffected. The addressed boy merely strode towards the shorter blond, turning around at the last second to rest his tall, almost imposing figure against the railings at the edges of the rooftop, much like Arthur had been doing. 

"I was looking for you." Alfred replied simply, seemingly oblivious to the flush which spread across the Briton's cheeks. The ex-American football quarterback looked up, then, the fading rays of the sunlight catching against the gunmetal frames of his glasses, the glint interfering with Arthur's gaze meeting the American's own. "Liz said she hadn't seen you the entire day, so I took matters into my own hands." 

"And that gave you clearance to just barge here as you wished and sing along?" It was irritating, the way the git continued to smile as if there was nothing wrong with the world. 

The world was a cruel place. There was no denying that, what with all the evidence, with all the proof, the reasons, the justifications of its cruelty which was reflected in every human being which lived upon its surface and breathed the oxygen in its atmosphere. The world was cruel, and yet... 

And yet it was still beautiful. 

"Last I checked, you don't own this rooftop, _Artie"_ —Arthur furrowed his impressively intimidating brows at the infuriating nickname, but held his tongue as the American continued on—"unless something changed in the last twenty-four hours?" 

"My name is _Arthur,_ you bloody git," he snapped, leveling a glare at the taller American. 

"And my name's _Alfred,_ not 'git'." He countered, and one would have thought that they were bickering, if not for the teasing tone and the amused glint in the boy's eyes as he gazed down at the annoyed Briton. The flush to his cheeks wasn't due to just anger, Arthur belatedly realised—it was also out of... _embarrassment?_ What on earth was he embarrassed about? 

"I will call you by your name when you stop acting like a bloody _child."_ He returned, raising his chin up in the haughty manner he had whenever he debated with someone. (This was a stupid thing to debate about, but who cared?) 

"Do I look like a kid to you?" 

A thoughtful silence occurred between the two parties, broken only by a scoff from the green-eyed blond. 

"Yes." 

Alfred drew a gasp in mock-offense, his features set in a look which betrayed his amusement despite the abnormally adorable pout he sported. 

_Wait._

Did Arthur just think that the American's pout was _adorable?_

He immediately shook his head imperceptibly, just enough so that the seemingly oblivious American wouldn't notice. He risked a glance at the American, who was gazing at him with the thoughtful, partly appraising look he'd given him the day before. It was unnerving. 

"Why did you even want to look—" 

"Why do you try so hard to be forgotten?" 

Arthur immediately stopped, jaw locking shut as his shoulders drew up defensively, and he instinctively withdrew a step backwards. Alfred was looking at him, staring challengingly into his eyes—and those blue, _blue_ eyes had that _look_ again, that look he'd glimpsed during that brief encounter in Mr. Vargas' History class around a week ago. But he couldn't risk it, he couldn't tell anyone—he couldn't let anyone know who he _really_ was. 

Alfred forged onwards, taking a step forward, decreasing the distance the Briton had placed between them. "You avoid everyone like they're the plague. You submit articles to WA's campus paper, but you want to remain anonymous. You're a stellar student, but you don't try to draw attention to yourself in class, you don't recite, you don't pay as much attention to the teachers as other honor students do, but you still gain high grades. You try to stereotype yourself as a common punk so others won't try to pry even further." 

"Are you done?" Arthur whispered quietly. His voice trembled with suppressed rage as he clenched his fists by his side, desperately holding himself back from decking the annoyingly inquisitive wanker. How could this boy figure him out so _easily?_ How could he point out the changes, break down the façade he'd built? Was he that easy to read? Was it really so easy to accept who he was now? "Are you done trying to fit me into your narrow-minded view?" 

The American quieted, an uncharacteristically serious look upon his features. "Are you sure that _I'm_ the one who's narrow-minded, Arthur? Or is it _you?"_

He didn't respond. He didn't look up as Alfred turned and walked away, leaving him alone on the rooftop. 

_"'Where do we go? Where do we go now?'"_ He sang softly under his breath. He was lost. He was confused, conflicted, a war raging deep inside of him that he couldn't stop any longer. 

_"'Where do we go? Sweet child o' mine...'"_


	4. t h r e e

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: "Of All The Gin Joints In All The World" by Fall Out Boy

t h r e e

_« i s n ' t  i t  e n o u g h  t o  k n o w  t h a t  s o m e o n e  c a r e s ? »_

Where there are insurgents, there are punishments.

This was held true from the grandest and most complex monarchies, to the most obscure hierarchies. The Social Hierarchy of World Academy was no different—even though it was run by high school students who were in the prime of their adolescent years and still affected by pubescent hormones, there was no doubt in any student's mind, be they a Royal or a Commoner, that the King did _not_ tolerate any rule breakers.

Any of those, and they were called—with an appropriate shudder and a sneer of disgust from those who conformed most to the three unspoken rules— _'Rogues'._

To be a Rogue was punishable by the worst sentences conceivable in the mind of a high school student who thrived upon popularity. They were misfits, outcasts, black sheep—simply put, they didn't belong, whether to a caste or simply in general. They were abnormalities, stains on the otherwise perfect surface of the prestigious Academy. And to keep the order, the King and his court normally devised the most devious of ways to rid the hierarchy of the blasted eyesores. 

As if it was not enough to be a Rogue, there was also a sub-category, so to speak, to the outcasts—and they were called the _'Suicide Squadron',_ but was more often spoken of as the _'Fallen Ones':_ the students who chose to become misfits, who cast aside the prestige and popularity of the hierarchy in preference to the obscurity and humiliation of being in the lowest rung of the social circle. 

This infamous group was _notorious,_ in every sense of the word, for their occasional battles with the King's court, and even with the King himself. They challenged him without fail, but not without repercussions. They never fell back, however, and for this their names were spoken with both disgust and awe by both Royals and Commoners alike.

But of what relevance was this to one Arthur Kirkland? 

It all came to pass on one peculiarly warm morning in early November, a week and a half since the Briton last properly talked to the strange American. 

It was to be noted that they occasionally exchanged gazes and looks, a whispered word here and there in the middle of their fleeting encounters in class, but never anything tangible enough to be remembered. True, there were moments when the green-eyed blond saw that same _look_ again in the boy's eyes, and led him to silently grit his teeth in simmering agitation.

He _remembered,_ of course—how could he forget the words the boy had uttered that afternoon on the rooftop? It had sent him spiraling into a cacophony of thoughts, which swirled and chased themselves around in his mind, and left him tossing and turning upon his sheets at night, an arm over his face. Arthur always ended up sitting upright and typing away his frustration into his works until dawn peeked into his room and set his aching eyes burning with unshed tears. 

So it was on that morning, with his head pounding with a mild headache rooted from the fact that he had just survived an Algebra quiz the period before, that Arthur began to dread the next subject—which, unfortunately for him, was Physical Education. 

Oh, he was no stick when it came to his athletic abilities; he was decent in that area, at least, having been trained in the art of running away from his brothers when they attempted to beat him up when he was younger, and that proved to be effective training when he briefly joined a football (for he refused to call the sport 'soccer', as the bloody Americans did) team in middle school. But his dread came from the fact that the instructor in the subject for his class was also the Assistant Principal of the Academy, and a renown 'sadist' when it came to physical fitness. 

Dr. Aldrich Beilschmidt was no joke when it came to his occasional Physical Education exams, and that morning was a perfect example as to why many in the Academy's population both revered and feared him.

"Capture the Flag?" He echoed, shifting the sleeves of the jersey so that it better covered his bandaged wrist. He'd left it halfway unzipped over the required white shirt and the matching track pants, which was also in a shade of green which somewhat reminded him of military camouflage. Arthur had no doubt that it was the Assistant Principal's choice of colour, deviating from the school colours of blue and silver. 

Their instructor nodded once, succinctly, and his pale blond hair, which was tied into a low ponytail, shifted slightly from its place on the man's right shoulder. "This will test not only your teamwork and cooperation, but also your own physical abilities as well as strategic thinking." He looked over the varying expressions on his students' faces, which ranged from outright terror, to nervousness, while some sported a calm and calculating look amidst a poker face. (Arthur as part of the latter group, with his expression schooled into one of polite curiosity, but not at all betraying the tension he concealed so well.) 

"I have already selected two team captains for each group, who will in turn choose their teammates from both the girls and boys. There will be no exchanging of teammates, no maiming or causing serious injury—such as breaking one's limbs, for example." With the last phrase, cold blue eyes met with amused purple belonging to the ivory-haired youth standing in the back, surrounded by his court.

Dr. Beilschmidt turned away, then, but not without one last warning look in the direction of the hierarchy's 'King'. "Now then, the names I will call will be the team captains for this game of Capture the Flag. Step right up when I do so." He cleared his throat, letting his unnervingly cold and calculating gaze skim over the heads of his students, assessing each and every one, before they landed upon the figure standing just behind the Briton.

"The Captain of the Blue Team will be Alfred F. Jones." 

A hand settled upon the sandy blond male's shoulder as the American pushed forward and out of the crowd amidst the hushed whispers from their classmates, which were quickly stifled with another harsh glare from the Assistant Principal. Arthur, startled by the hand Alfred had briefly placed upon his shoulder as he passed, watched with narrowed eyes as their instructor handed a navy blue banner to the ex-football quarterback, along with several bandanas in the same color. 

With that finished, Dr. Beilschmidt looked towards his class once again, and his stare immediately settled upon the intimidating presence surrounded by his court, even in the middle of a seemingly harmless PE class. 

"And the Captain of the White Team will be Ivan Braginski."

The whispers turned up a notch as the imposing figure of the hierarchy's King strode forward to claim the white banner from the professor, the cluster of bandanas looking like a small clump of cloth in his large hands. Tension seemed to spike higher and higher as the two captains faced each other: the Russian with a small, almost innocent smile, and the American with a carefully controlled version of his usual sunny grin. 

"Now, I will toss a coin. Heads for the Blue Team, tails for the White Team. Whichever comes up will signal which captain will choose his teammates first. _Is that clear?"_ The German Assistant Principal's voice brooked no refusal as he glanced between his two students, who offered no complaints and simply acquiesced. Even they, as high-ranking as they were (or _formerly_ were) in the Social Hierarchy, could never defy the frightening Dr. Beilschmidt.

The students of Class 3-A watched with bated breath as the coin was tossed high into the air, spinning once, twice, before it fell into gravity's embrace and landed with a small clink upon the tiles. The Assistant Principal bent down and announced in a calm voice, "Heads. The Blue Team chooses first."

Arthur released a small breath he didn't know he had been withholding until that moment. He looked up from where the coin had landed, and emerald green met with sky blue. An unknown glint glimmered in Alfred's eyes as his lips pulled up into a knowing grin, and he placed a hand into the pocket of his jersey. Without breaking eye contact, he walked forward, placing a hand upon the Briton's shoulder. 

"I choose Arthur Kirkland." 

_What?_

The words were spoken quietly, Arthur could almost claim that he didn't believe his ears as Alfred's voice ghosted past the curve of his cheek. He had to tip his head up to see the American's smile as a navy blue bandana was tied onto his right bicep, and then he was being pulled into Alfred's side in front of the entire class.

"That isn't wise, _da?"_ The seemingly childlike voice broke through Arthur's trance as the ivory-haired Russian offered an innocent but menacing smile in his direction. "Choosing a 'Rogue' to be on your side... You are simply asking for trouble, _Fredka."_

"Who I choose is _none_ of your business, Ivan." Alfred returned coldly. "Isn't it your turn to pick your team?"

_"Da."_ The King agreed nonchalantly, and he merely tipped his head in the direction of a terrifying young woman with platinum blond hair. "I choose my cousin, Natalya Arlovskaya."

The tension seemed to rise even more as the young woman shot a glare in their direction—a glare so intense that it was as if she was imagining them dead, preferably with their blood on her hands. Arthur had to hide the shudder which passed through him at the thought.

It went on in the same manner, with barely concealed threats and promises of dismemberment or humiliation being exchanged between the two captains. The Briton was already sure, by the end of the selection, that the two shared a rather violent rivalry, if the exchanges were any evidence. 

On the Blue Team, led by the now surprisingly serious American (then again, Ivan's threats seemed to have some weight at least, for him to behave this way) were Arthur, Elizaveta, a Japanese boy named Kiku Honda, an Italian called Feliciano Vargas (whom the Briton discovered to be their History teacher, Mr. Romulus Vargas' grandson), a timid girl named Lilli Zwingli and her brother, Vash, a rowdy German named Gilbert Beilschmidt (Arthur had to do a double take when he heard his surname, thinking it to be a mistake, but was then pacified with the knowledge that yes, the terrifying Assistant Principal was actually his uncle), a Filipino girl called Maria Clara dela Cruz, and a boy Arthur had never noticed before, named Matthew Williams, Alfred's cousin. They at least seemed to know each other on a personal level, Arthur exempted as he was still rather new to the campus and had never interacted with them before, nor had he chosen to. (Aside from Elizaveta, but she was a different matter altogether.)

On the White Team, there were an assortment of... _eccentric_ students, to put it lightly. There was Ivan Braginski, the King of the Social Hierarchy, as their Captain, along with his cousin, the frightening Natalya Arlovskaya. There was also a masked personage called Sadiq Adnan, who was currently arguing with a tall boy who looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. (But preferably asleep.) Arthur recalled him to be called Herakles Karpusi. There was a trio of boys who kept glancing at Alfred as if he wanted him to save them from the scary Russian; one with chin-length brown hair, one with blond hair with similar length, who was all but hugging the former to his chest and glaring warningly at the ivory-haired boy, and the last with dark brown hair and glasses. If he heard right, they were named Toris Laurinaitis, Feliks Łukasiewicz, and Eduard Von Bock. And then there were the girls: Emma Peeters, who was talking with her brother, Abel, and Lucia dela Cruz, whom Arthur learned to be Maria's stepsister. 

So in all, in the Blue Team, there were three girls and seven boys, while on the White Team, there were also three girls and seven boys, making the distribution completely equal. It was only then that Arthur realized the utter difference between how much their class prevailed upon male students as opposed to females. (Although, if he was judging this correctly, he was quite certain that many of the boys in the class were either bisexual or homosexual, and one of which seemed to be either gender-fluid or transgender. Not that the Briton minded, as he too—how to phrase this politely— _batted for the other team,_ so to speak.) 

The 'battle ground' was set to be the entire length of the football field, a clear and flat space which guaranteed no hideouts and absolutely no cover, which meant that they had to primarily fight for their lives—or be practical and strategic in utilizing the materials the professor provided.

Arthur glanced towards where the Assistant Principal stood before the white line which signified the exact middle of the grounds, holding both a megaphone and a clipboard, with a whistle hanging round his neck. He looked at the team captains and their teams, which had assembled in groups with the two boys in the lead.

"Now the rules are," Dr. Beilschmidt began as soon as he managed to silence the arguing Turk and his Grecian contender with another of his patented glares of death. "First: whoever manages to capture the other team's flag and bring it over to their side wins. Second: removing the bandana of one in the opposing team removes them from the game. Removed or untied bandanas will remain in the eliminated's possession. Third: those eliminated from the game will have to stand in the 'prisons' in the sidelines, and can only be put back in the game when a member from their own team tags them out of the prison and successfully ties their bandana back on. Fourth: your bandanas must be tied in a place where your classmates may fully see them so as to give equal opportunity in tagging each other out. I repeat: there will be no violence, no maiming, no purposeful causing of harm towards any of your fellow students or I will have you be sent into detention for a month—and not with Vargas, but with me. And you all know what detention is when I am in charge. Is that clear?"

They all nodded, the timid ones glancing nervously at the smug looks some of the others sported. 

Dr. Beilschmidt nodded approvingly. "I will give you ten minutes to organize a strategy before the game begins. Your time starts now."

With the shrill blast of the whistle, the teams moved towards their separate goals, where their banners hung proudly and in plain view. Arthur looked up at the navy blue cloth fluttering in the brisk wind, tugging absentmindedly at the secure knot of his own bandana. 

He knew, of course. With the way the members of the White Team eyed several of his teammates, he knew that they weren't planning on playing nice for this game. It was clear that they disliked many of the members of the Blue Team, as evidenced by the murderous glares and hissed jeers the Briton overheard earlier on. 

It was going to be a bloodbath—Dr. Beilschmidt's threat of detention be damned.

"'No maiming', my ass," Gilbert grumbled, crossing his arms across his torso as he returned the heated glares of the White Team's members from across the field. "We all know that that's just some pretty bullshit." 

The Hungarian girl whacked him over the head, which elicited a pained grunt and a yelp of, "What the hell, Lizzie?" from the disgruntled German ("Prussian!" He had corrected when Arthur had said otherwise.) "None of your anti-Hierarchy shit right now, Gil," she scolded, complete with a finger wagging to and fro, as if chastising a child. "We need a plan to beat them, and we need it _pronto._ We only have ten—no, nine minutes left to make one up so we don't get beaten into the ground."

"Liz is right," Alfred cut in, then, breaking off his intense staring match with the ivory-haired King, who smiled that seemingly innocent smile again before turning back to his teammates. "We need a plan. So I'm gonna ask you guys: who's a decent runner in our team?"

**—**

"Why me?" 

Alfred glanced towards the Briton as the words slipped past his lips, a meagre whisper amidst the brisk wintry wind. He dug his hands into the pockets of his dark green jersey jacket, watching as wisps of his breath condensed in the chilly wind. It was strange how fast the weather changed within the span of half an hour. 

"What do you mean, why you?" He asked, although he already knew the answer. The American watched as the shorter male's shoulders drew up slightly, emphasizing the tension he kept hidden within his seemingly small frame. The way he held himself made him seem so much more imposing in real life; like he could take on anything, consequences be damned. It was like Arthur was saying, _"Fuck society,"_ with every gesture, every harsh look in his acidic green eyes and blunt word which escaped from that razor-sharp tongue. 

But sometimes, Alfred wondered just how much of it was part of the front Arthur put up just to look strong. He knew it was a façade, of course.

He knew, because he put up a similar one as well.

The sandy blond youth glanced at the taller boy, then, tormented green clashing with curious azure as they waited for the game to start. "Why do you keep doing this?" He demanded quietly as they took their places—Alfred guarding the banner, Arthur as part of the second line of their offensive. "Why are you pushing yourself where you don't belong?"

He could hear the hidden questions beneath the sharp demands.

_Why are you trying so hard just to know me? Why are you trying to show me that you care when no one else ever did?_

And he smiled just as the whistle blew and dirt flew up into the air as his teammates kicked off running towards the other team's goal.

"Isn't it enough to know that someone cares?" Alfred asked quietly, as if to himself, as he watched the first clash of the two teams.

Elizaveta had taken charge of their offensive, barking out the command phrases they had settled on to keep their 'enemy' from guessing their next point of attack. She ducked beneath wildly flailing limbs, ripping bandanas and handing them back to their owners—with harsh obscenities and grumbles from those in the receiving end—as fast as she could. 

"Arthur!" She called, and the Briton turned his head in her direction as he was weaving through the cluster of the offensive lines from both teams. "Operation _'Helena'!"_

He grinned, offering a two-fingered salute as he vaulted over a stunned Eduard, his white bandana fluttering down to his face as Arthur sprinted away, his goal clear in sight as he yelled back to Elizaveta, who was busy duking it out with a furious Natalya— _"'So Long and Goodnight'!"_

Operation 'Helena', Alfred mused as he watched over the progress of his team, the offensive slowly but surely crossing the field, and the defense successfully fending off any wayward White Team members who slipped through their offense. If Elizaveta was already pulling that maneuver out, it meant that they had no need for their last resort—which Arthur had aptly named, _'Amazing Grace'._

The maneuver called for their offense line—Gilbert, Elizaveta, Vash and Maria—to provide a distraction and to hold down the fort, so to speak, and eliminate the offense line of their opponents so that their runners, Arthur and Matthew, could grab the banner and back over to their side without a hitch. The reply to the call of _'Operation Helena', 'So Long and Goodnight',_ however, meant that Arthur would distract the defense line of the opposing team, making them believe that he will be the one to grab the banner and hightail it back to base, whereas it would actually be Matthew, who was skilled in stealth because of his low presence, who would make use of Arthur's distraction to claim the flag and run back to their team's side. 

It was dangerous, of course. But Arthur had insisted. 

_"I'm not letting you put me on defense when we know that I can do better on offense,"_ he had protested when Alfred started to decline his request to be one of the runners. 

The American knew that the Hierarchy had put out something equivalent to a 'WANTED' mark on the Briton, a mark which called for him to suffer in the worst of ways a 'Rogue' ever could, and he wanted to protect him from that. He wasn't just playing hero for the sake of it.

He wanted Arthur to realize that he would be his hero, no matter what. 

But that meant that he had to let him do as he pleased, so as to not risk angering the volatile blond, and to acquiesce to his demand. So Alfred agreed, but on one condition.

And that condition was their last resort, _'Amazing Grace'._

"Kiku, how many of the White Team's been eliminated?" Alfred asked from his post, pacing between where their team's banner stood and the prison, marked by several white lines upon the field. He glanced at the Japanese boy, who was also guarding their banner with the usual expressionless mask upon his face.

"I believe there are already three—no, six, now, Alfred-san," Kiku responded as three more from the opposing team moved towards the prison, holding onto their almost ripped bandanas. "Elizaveta-chan is quite the warrior when she wants to be."

"Gil looks like he's having the time of his life too." He muttered, looking out to where the albino was fighting against the ivory-haired King. He itched to be part of the combat, to put it lightly; he wanted to be out there, to be part of the main players, but he knew he couldn't. Not _yet,_ 'anyway.

Their defense consisted of Feliciano, Lilli, Kiku, and Alfred himself, as the head of the defensive line. He hadn't wanted to send out two of the girls in his team on offense, but they had quickly proven him wrong—Elizaveta with a punch to the gut, Maria with a slap to the face. He didn't doubt their strength afterwards; he knew better than to actually put himself on death row. 

Still, how could Alfred be Arthur's hero when he was here, on defense, while _his tsundere Briton_ was out on the offensive? 

(He really had to tone down the possessive side; Arthur might hit him for laying claim to him without him knowing, and they weren't even friends just yet, to put it bluntly.)

He should have known to be careful what he wished for.

As Alfred cast his gaze towards the prison, making sure that none of the opposing team's players managed to escape without him knowing, he heard a familiar voice cry out.

It was no call, no shout of a command, just a raw, wordless cry of agony which immediately sent Alfred's nerves shot with anxiety. He turned to look at the ongoing 'game', desperately skimming over the heads of his other classmates, when he saw a sight which simultaneously left him both frozen and his blood burning with anger.

Arthur knelt, mouth still half-open in the aftermath of his cry, harsh breaths forced through trembling lips as his left arm remained twisted against his back. A victorious Ivan Braginski held him down, fingers tightly clenched into the Briton's forearm. But it wasn't the forced submission which angered Alfred.

It was the blood.

It was rapidly soaking through Arthur's sleeve, tainting the green cloth of his jersey an even darker shade that it almost looked black. Still Ivan held him down with no care to the fact that the lithe Briton was hurting from his bleeding wounds, made worse by the fact that the Russian's fingers dug deeply into flesh, even through the cloth of the bloodstained jersey. 

Alfred couldn't take it. 

He breathed deeply through his nose, counting from one to ten in a vain attempt to ease his rapidly burning rage, to no avail. He vaguely heard Kiku saying that Gilbert had been knocked out when Ivan threw him off, allowing the King to rush after Arthur and pin him down like he was doing, restraining him without any thought to the fact that he was hurting, goddamn it, even the most vile of children knew that when a person was already hurt, there was no need to keep tormenting him, fucking damn it—

He raised his gaze, but all he could see was red as he saw Matthew out of the corner of his eyes, having successfully claimed the White Team's banner and sneaking back to their side. With a shake of his head, Alfred advanced, only letting himself whisper to a concerned Kiku.

_"Commencing Operation 'Amazing Grace'."_

With that, he sprinted towards where Ivan still restrained a weakened Arthur with that smug, seemingly childlike grin he always had. He didn't care as he backhanded the commie bastard just as the whistle blew, signifying the end of the game. 

Alfred lowered himself to Arthur's level, watching with wordless concern as the Briton struggled to take in air, cradling his injured arm to his chest as frustrated tears pricked at his eyes. When his sleeve rolled down, the American saw just where the blood came from.

Ripped bandages stained with crimson unraveled from around Arthur's wrist, where at least ten angry, crisscrossing lines bled with even more of the scarlet liquid. In vain, Arthur attempted to cover up his wounds—no, his cuts, evidence of him harming himself, trying to rid himself of his own life. 

And Alfred said nothing as he pulled Arthur to him, wishing that for once, having someone who cared would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> Dr. Aldrich Beilschmidt — Germania  
> Maria Clara dela Cruz — OC! Philippines  
> Lucia dela Cruz — OC! Luzon, the largest island in the Philippines.
> 
> « song references »  
> "Helena (So Long And Goodnight)" by My Chemical Romance  
> "Amazing Grace", hymn written by John Newton


	5. f o u r

f o u r

_« w h a t  d o  i  k n o w ?  i  k n o w  y o u . »_

_"Pain is a reminder that all we are is human and in the end, that is all we can aspire to be. Pain grounds us, reveals us, restrains us, but it empowers us.  
"Because only those who have suffered pain can truly say they have lived."  
—"Bridge Over Troubled Water" _ by merakily (fengbi) on archiveofourown.org 

_"Is there anything left to fight for when they've given up?" He asked, thumbing idly at the sheets._

__

__

__

__

_He didn't look up when his cousin had entered the room and taken the seat beside the bed. He knew that Mattie already_ knew, _anyway, judging from how he saw the way his hands trembled out of the corner of his eyes._

_And they said that_ he _was an oblivious idiot. A grim, humorless smile took hold of his lips, before it slipped away once again. Ha, the joke was on them._

__"Don't say that." __

_It was hissed out from between clenched teeth; unwilling, unrepentant, demanding. It was similar, so utterly_ similar _to the manner in which Matthew would speak during a particularly hard bout of hockey between them. Ah, but that_ wasn't _going to happen again, was it?_

_"Say what?" Finally, finally, Alfred looked up. His lips felt like they were about to tear apart from the effort he was exerting to keep up his usual beam. God, it_ hurt. _"Hey, Mattie, what shouldn't I say?"_

_But nothing hurt more than the fact that his younger cousin was crying because of him._

_He wasn't an idiot. He already_ knew, _damn it._

__"Don't say that we've given up on you, Al!" _He shouted._

_His voice was cracking, splintering, shattering into infinitesimal shards which buried deep into the American's heart. He was such an asshole, Alfred thought to himself as he met Matthew's pained violet eyes. His tears streaked down his cheeks, fogged up his glasses, and dripped onto his tightly clenched hands, but the Canadian didn't give a damn._

_He was such an asshole for even thinking that maybe, just maybe..._

_It would be easier for his family if he were to be forgotten._

There were no words exchanged between them.

He kept his head down, lips drawn tight into a thin line, pale pink bleeding into darker scarlet as he nipped at his lower lip. He focused on the maroon liquid which stained the Briton's sleeve, bandages and wrist, marring the pallid skin with the definitive crimson. 

The silence spread thick between them, coiling around their tense limbs, coursing through veins which rapidly pumped blood throughout their bodies, clogged up their airways and made it hard to breathe. (Alfred had to wonder at that last irony of their situation.) They were alone in the confines of the school paper clubroom, where a fuming Elizaveta had ordered an equally livid Gilbert to fetch some things from the clinic. He propped up his glasses with his free hand, turning his inquiring gaze upon Arthur's façade.

It was starting to crack, as if the fault lines were marked by the tear stains upon his pale, freckled cheeks (and _God,_ this close, he could see the patterns, the constellations his freckles made upon his smooth skin). He'd long since drawn his weirdly thick eyebrows into its customary furrow, stress clearly etched in his acidic green eyes. 

His eyes which failed to hide what Alfred found so similar—the haunting sorrow, the resigned acceptance, the painful longing and nostalgia for a time once known but will never come back. His eyes which were similar to the American, because he had them as well.

Those eyes which yearned for the permanent release death would bring, in order to mend scars which were inscribed into shattered hearts hidden deep within.

Strangely enough, he couldn't bring himself to speak and break the silence which stretched taut between them, break the uneasy tension which flourished readily and crackled noticeably between the two Juniors. His usually tattling tongue remained rendered useless, and he found that he couldn't look away as Arthur's lips lifted into a small, bitter smile.

He looked so fragile, then; so broken, so _vulnerable_ —as if all of his punk persona vanished in one infinitesimal moment.

And he remembered.

_"'So I step towards self-destruction,'"_ he whispered softly under the cover of the exhale which left his chapped lips, _"'My one torment, my absolution. And I'll let go of misconstrued realizations, Of shattered dreams and forsaken adorations.'"_

Green eyes watched and pale lips parted, and an English-accented voice continued shakily, _"'Darling, don't stay, please leave me be—Leave me in this temporary eternity; Leave me in time's embrace, in its lonely captivity. Don't stay, please promise me—'"_

Alfred looked into Arthur's green, green eyes, and he smiled the same smile he'd given him—fragile, broken, _vulnerable. "'Forget me, my darling, and this bittersweet memory.'"_ He finished, as softly as he began. The American glanced into the Briton's wide eyes, seeing the barely concealed disbelief within the evergreen irises.

"You were the one who wrote that poem, weren't you? _'Liebesleid'—or 'Love's Sorrow',_ after Fritz Kreisler's piece of the same name."

He stiffened, the skin over his already white knuckles pulled tight, a stark contrast against the drying blood on what was seen of his arm. "So what if I was?" He questioned brusquely, the shutters guarding the pain Alfred knew was within those eyes once again. He could hear it, lying just beneath the frigidity and bluntness of his voice. "Of what relevance is that _now,_ Jones?"

The taller male reached out, grasping the injured arm with gentle fingers. Arthur tensed even more, jaw clenched in utter hesitance as Alfred took his wrist, careful not to irritate the wounds even further, before reaching for the towel which had been adrift in the basin of water set beside them. He gently dabbed at the bloodied skin, watching as the crimson was swept away into the water, which swirled around its confines, slowly dyed red with blood.

"You're unpredictable." Arthur uttered scathingly after a brief moment of silence—a considerable reprieve, to which Alfred laughed softly, demeaningly. 

"I could say the same about you, Arthur Kirkland." He said, his gaze still fixated upon the slow circles the cloth made as he wiped it along the length of Arthur's arm, before letting it drop back into the basin. "You are unpredictable. You are a contrast, a mix of black and white. You are a puzzle which doesn't want to be solved. You are vulnerable beneath your tough façade. You—"

A trembling hand pressed against his parted lips, a sheen of sweat upon the tips of the fingers. Alfred slowly removed the obstructing limb, continuing in the same unusually quiet voice he'd been using all along.

"You say that you want to be forgotten, but really, you are the one who wants to be remembered the most." 

His breath hitched, stuttering, like a fly trapped within the spider's web, caught with no escape. He bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood if he so wanted to, and he felt the familiar burn in the backs of his eyes. Arthur shook his head fiercely, releasing his lower lip from beneath his teeth as they gnashed together in his bubbling ire.

"How can you _say_ that?" He finally snarled. The American seemed unfazed by his outburst, which only served to stoke the flames of his anger. How could he sit there with that same inquisitive gaze, analyzing him as if he had all the time in the world? How could he judge him, when he didn't know what he'd been through? _How could this damn American wanker look at him as if he knew everything when he really didn't?!_

_"You don't know me, Alfred,"_ Arthur ground out, stressing each syllable as his accent thickened, and his teeth gnashed furiously. "You don't know _anything,_ so stop acting as if you do. Stop acting like you know everything. Stop prying into my life. Just—"

"Just _what,_ Arthur?" Alfred cut in, and his hands held the roll of bandages so tightly that his knuckles were noticeably paler than the rest of his tan skin. His voice was getting stronger, rising with resolute anger with each decibel level. "You're pushing me away, just like you do with everyone else. With Elizaveta, with the teachers, with the other students. You're hiding behind your façade even when it's already crumbling all around you. You're running from me, desperately holding on to the chains you've bound yourself with even when you can hold on to something—some _one_ else.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" His shoulders slumped forward, as if he was tired. Tired of having the unseen weight of his world pressing down upon his shoulders, tired of everything in the world he'd ever known. As if he had already resigned himself to his fate—which in truth, he already had, long ago.

"Why are you trying so hard to be forgotten when there's someone who'll always remember everything about you?" 

_"'Why?'"_ Arthur echoed. He started to tremble uncontrollably, a peal of self-deprecating laughter ringing forth and pouring from between his lips. "Why? Why, indeed." He shook his head, the fringes of his sandy blond hair obscuring his green eyes. When he looked up again, Alfred could see the gleaming tracks of tears which spilled down his cheeks, splattering against the cloth of his shirt. 

"Why am I trying to be forgotten?" He laughed once more, and _God,_ Alfred could feel his heart pounding away within him, each beat drumming those shards of pain even deeper than before.

Arthur smiled, closing those evergreen eyes as his tears fell upon his mutilated wrist. 

"It's because I don't deserve to be remembered."

**—**

_"Why did you tell me of all people, hamburger bastard?"_

_And he laughed. He laughed, not because he felt relief, not for joy, not for any of the emotions upon the positive spectrum. He laughed for he_ knew. __

_It was a laugh of bitterness, a wisp of the cumulative poison which had rooted itself into his defective heart._

_"Because you know what it's like to be standing at the doors of death, Lovino." His lips quirked at the corners, a shadow of his beaming grin. "You're even forcing them to open for you."_

**—**

He didn't know why it was, but he just did.

_Please don't smile like that. Don't smile like I do—like you're hiding all of the pain beneath an upturn of your lips, small as it might be._

He reached out—and even in his instinctive action, Alfred remained gentle as he pulled Arthur into his arms once again. His left hand was placed in between the smaller boy's shoulder blades, holding him close as the other cradled his cheek. 

"Don't give up on your life," he murmured as his thumb wiped away the tears. "When someone's fighting so hard just to keep theirs."

Arthur remained silent, shaking with the force of the sobs which wracked his slender form. _(That was what he was—slender, not skinny. Lean, not too tall, but not short, either. And in Alfred's eyes, he was already beautiful—even with every shattered piece.)_ He was gasping for air; short, shallow breaths in between intervals of his voiceless cries. 

And Alfred held him, as if in doing so, he might be able to put the pieces of the cataclysmic puzzle which was Arthur Kirkland. 

_"'Darling, I'll never abandon your side—I'll stay, through raging flames and roaring tides. I'll hold you close, hold you tight, Through all the terrors which haunt your nights—'"_ His lips brushed against closed evergreen eyes, now dry from tears, as he murmured the words from a poem he once read from long ago, and his own fell and trickled down a pallid cheek. 

_What do I know? I know you—because once upon a time, I knew someone like you._

_Don't tell me you're fine when you aren't. Don't say that nothing's wrong when I know it's everything. Don't smile when I know you're hurting._

_Don't lie to me when you're a terrible liar to begin with._

_"'I'll be your hero, your flawed knight; Through the darkness within you, I'll be your light.'"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Liebesleid — "Love's Sorrow", one of three short pieces composed by Fritz Kreisler. The music in the multimedia is a cover of the transcription Kreisler's friend, Sergei Rachmaninoff, made of this piece for solo piano.
> 
> The poems mentioned here in this chapter, as well as the other literary pieces which may be found quoted here (as written by Arthur "England" Kirkland) are made by yours truly. The quote in the very start of this chapter is from "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by merakily (fengbi) on archiveofourown.org, one of the many stories which inspired this fanfiction.


	6. f i v e

f i v e

_« w h a t d o e s i t m e a n t o b e f o r g o t t e n ? »_

Dusk had long since claimed its position in the skies, spreading fingers of indigo, crimson, and tangerine across the vast expanse. The wind had turned chilly a fortnight ago, edging closer and closer to the frigid gusts which heralded the coming of winter.

Arthur stood at the very base of the steps which lead to his brother's house, one combat boot-clad foot set firmly upon the lowest of the stairs. He had the urge to merely dash up the steps and into the house, preferably until he was safely within his room, and yet he pushed it down in favor of pulling his gaze away from the finely trimmed grass beneath their feet and up to meet the taller boy's gaze.

He cleared his throat, once, twice— _'And why the bloody hell are you stalling for time, you git?'_ His beloved subconscious grumped sarcastically in the way only he knew how. The Briton really looked into those eyes, then, noting the way his voice remained stubbornly stuck within his throat and his mouth clamped shut.

Was it just him or did his palms seem to bead with sweat despite the cold?

"You didn't have to keep me company until I got home, Alfred," he began, so quietly as if Alfred might be able to hear him despite his implementing his two-yard rule. (One in which Arthur kept a two-yard radius of distance between himself and the American. Not that the boy seemed to know about it.) "I can manage just fine."

He saw it, then—a smile, definitely more subdued than the boy's usual beaming grins, but was made infinitely more beautiful by the way those blue eyes (blue as the sky, blue as the seas Arthur had always loved) shone with gentleness and an unknown emotion which Arthur barely had time to analyze as the boy moved forward, reaching up in order to place a warm hand upon his cheek. He started, drawing a shallow gasp in surprise and utter bewilderment.

Alfred didn't seem to mind the fact that the Briton had stiffened considerably in the span of time in which he'd moved closer. Instead, he lowered his head, just enough so his lips barely brushed against Arthur's forehead, breath fanning against the fringe of his sandy blond hair. "I wanted to," The Briton could feel it, the way his lips curved into a subtle smile against his sensitive skin. 

"Because I'm your hero, aren't I?"

He was shaking, trembling uncontrollably once again. He hated it—hated feeling so weak, so damn _vulnerable,_ hated the fact that this bloody American could reduce him to a weak-kneed pile of mush with a smile and a few gentle words. Arthur gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tight as that annoying burn began again in the backs of his eyes.

_"My_ 'hero'?" He scoffed, irritated at the fact that his voice sounded choked up. _Shite._ "What kind of fast food have you been eating that you've become _this_ delusional?"

_"Hey, jerk Arthur? Who're your heroes? Are they Mum and Dad, too?"_

_"Of course, Peter. They've always been there for us, remember? 'Course, Mum's a_ heroine, _not a hero."_

_"That's the same thing, jerk Arthur! There's no difference!"_

_"There definitely is—oi! Quit it!"_

He was _not_ going to cry. He'd already spent much of this boy's time, sobbing his heart out as he clung to the American's jersey jacket merely an hour and a half ago. He wasn't—

"Arthur,"—And _oh,_ why did this boy have to say his name so gently, so _lovingly?_ Why did he have to make it so hard for him to keep his calm?—"Arthur, you're crying."

Indeed, he was. He nipped at his bottom lip, struggling to keep in the sobs which threatened to burst forth once more. He was barely aware of the fact that his tears kept streaming down his cheeks, falling and falling as if there was nothing which could hold them back any longer—

And then there was Alfred. Alfred, the annoying git of an American who held him through everything, who pestered him incessantly and tore apart the walls he'd placed around himself, who cleaned and rebandaged his cuts when they tore open after that disastrous game of Capture the Flag, who—

Whose lips carefully kissed away the tears which gathered upon his eyelashes and trickled down his cheeks, whose hands gently cradled his face as he continued to cry.

This was Alfred F. Jones, ex-American football quarterback, 'Fallen Prince' of the Social Hierarchy, and the boy his heart was gullible enough to start to fall for after merely a few weeks of incessant pestering. 

_God,_ he was so damn weak it was bordering upon pitiful.

"Stop it," he managed to protest, weak though it was as the taller boy's lips lingered against the curve of his cheekbone, kissing away the last of his tears. His eyes fluttered closed, desperately hiding the tormented green of his eyes, which to any keen observer had looked like bitter absinthe. "Why do you keep _doing_ this to me?"

Alfred pulled away, then, yet his fingers remained against his cheek, thumb caressing the smooth curve. "Why do I keep doing _what,_ Arthur?" He questioned softly, and his hands finally left the Briton's face, leading him to immediately miss the warmth they'd brought. It was unnatural, the way his voice flowed smoothly and wrapped around him like music, filled with so much meaning he didn't have time to discern. 

_"This!"_ He snapped, pulling away, backing up a step. (It was fortunate that he managed to step up the stairs, instead of knocking his ankle against the higher step and tripping, falling onto his arse like some clumsy twat. It gave him some sort of leverage in height, at least, being on the stairs as he were.) His green, green eyes blazed, the emotions which had been simmering just beneath the thin veneer of calm finally overflowing and showing themselves in their purest form. 

"Why do you keep approaching me? Why do you try to break down my walls even when I never asked you to? Why—" he stopped short, catching himself barely on time before the forbidden words fell from his lips and out into the late autumn night. 

_Why do you hold me like you're trying to put me back together? Why do you smile at me as if you care when no one else ever did?_

_Why are you making it so easy to simply fall for you even when I never wanted to?_

"Because I care." 

There was something in those blue eyes Arthur didn't even want to try and comprehend, for he knew that it might shatter him altogether. There was something in those blue eyes, illuminated by the light coming from the porch, almost hidden by the glint of his glasses. 

It was different from the look Alfred had given him from that first time they'd talked during History. It was different from the one he had given him that afternoon on the rooftop. 

And yet Arthur could see that he was sincere. He meant the unspoken words which hung between them as Alfred took his hand and pulled up his sleeve, lifting his hand just enough in order to press his lips against the part of his wrist where his scars were most noticeable.

_'I'll still care for every shattered piece of you. So please, believe in me.'_

They didn't say a word. They didn't need to. 

And when Arthur closed his eyes and felt Alfred's warmth enclosing him, arms wrapped carefully around his slender figure, he took a deep breath, and his lips softly murmured the words he knew Alfred would hear.

_"I always have."_

**—**

Alfred couldn't say that he didn't expect this coming.

The man stood tall, feet (clad in expensive leather shoes) set shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over torso, which was emphasized by the rather form-fitting dress shirt the man wore, paired with dark slacks. A pair of reading glasses were still perched upon the bridge of the older male's nose, yet it didn't lessen the intimidating yet analyzing stare the man's dark green eyes held, further emphasized by the strangely thick brows which were currently furrowed in thought.

Despite it all, the American only grinned and raised a hand in a two-fingered salute. "Yo, Doctor Kirkland, sir." He said cheerfully, which utterly scandalized the smaller blond who stood by his side, who immediately slapped his arm before turning to look at the older man who barred their way into the house. He ignored him, continuing on, "Lieutenant Jones, reporting for duty. I've come to report of a mission well finished, sir." 

The eldest Kirkland nodded, before gesturing for Arthur to leave the room.

"Camden, what—" Arthur began, only to be silenced by the hand his elder brother put up. He gritted his teeth, observing the way Camden's green eyes glinted with an indecipherable flicker, before it was gone altogether. 

"It's nothing, brother," his brother's accent had dulled over the years he'd been living in the States, yet it was still there, lingering beneath the surface. "Think nothing of it. I only wish ta' speak ta' yer friend Jones, here. I'll talk ta' ye later; go on, Antoinette's already finished preparing dinner. I'll join ye after a lil' while."

The younger seemed to want to protest, but after shooting a quick glance at the American (who looked too amused at the situation for his own good—but it wasn't his fault, it was just too funny to pass up) he quickly strode out of the living room and into the dining room next door, making sure to slam the door extra loudly as he did so.

As soon as the door closed with a slam which reverberated throughout the room, much to Alfred's added amusement, he glanced towards the eldest Kirkland, who'd already seated himself in an armchair close to the fireplace, and motioned for him to take the seat across from him. 

"So, Alfred," the doctor began, narrowing his eyes at the American, "I know ye're taken with me brother, Arthur." 

He nodded—for what else was he to do? _Lie?_ "Yeah, that's right, Dr. Kirkland."

The man sighed, then, resting back against the cushions of the armchair with his fingers laced together as he gazed into the fire.

"Just Camden'll do, lad; we ain't at the hospital, ye know? And I ain't _tha'_ much older than the two of ye are; just a few years o' so. Nothin' big, so quit with tha' professional shite—we're at me house, laddie, not at the hospital, as I've told ye. Ye're free ta' speak freely here, as we're talking 'bout me brother, not yer... situation." The red-haired man coughed, then, as he settled upon using such a loose term for Alfred's condition.

_'Situation'_ was a much too nice term for it.

"I ain't sayin' this as yer doctor, lad," Dark green looked into blue, then, and Alfred couldn't help but compare those eyes with Arthur's. "but ye already know what might happen, right?"

He knew, of course. He was no idiot.

But he didn't care.

He was Arthur's hero, as much as the Briton was his. 

Alfred only hoped that he could convey that in the indefinitely limited time he had left.

**—**

Arthur was no fan of losing control.

He hated being out of element, hated everything being in disarray and spinning wildly away from his grasp. He hated irrationality in everything: in emotions, in actions, in everything in between. Everything had to fit according to his unnaturally high standards.

As such, he was often called to be a control freak due to this particular idiosyncrasy of his. But he never really cared, because that was just how he was. That was who Arthur Kirkland was at his very core, the very basis of his being, and he doubted that he would change for anyone else.

And so, on the calm Thursday morning the day after the catastrophic game of Capture the Flag, the volatile Briton found himself being dragged away from his locker (which he barely managed to close once again) by an overenthusiastic American. He grumbled obscenities beneath his breath, cursing out the fact that Alfred didn't seem unfazed by his grumpy disposition. Instead, the boy only continued to tug him along, their hands firnly laced together, and Arthur hadn't felt inclined to pull his hand out of the ex-athlete's monstrous grip in spite of his constant stream of complaints. 

He didn't seem to notice that they were only a few minutes away from being completely late for class.

They certainly attracted attention, what with the taller being the formerly dubbed 'Golden Boy' of World Academy, and was now walking along, hand-in-hand, no less, with the notorious 'punk' and so-called 'Rogue' of the prestigious international school. Alfred still didn't seem to care about that, though, and still proceeded to pull the poor Briton along through the crowds and up towards a stretch of the halls Arthur had never known existed until then.

A tall figure stood in wait for them at the very end of the hall, which was completely deserted, as far as Arthur could see. The latter had silvery hair tucked beneath a black beanie, eyes hooded beneath shadowed eyelids as they gazed down at a phone which the figure held within his hand, the other being pushed deep into the pockets of the black hoodie the boy sported, paired with dark jeans and white-and-grey checkered high-tops. 

Alfred whistled, and the figure looked up, pale lips pulled up into a wide grin. "Hey, Al! Good to see you, _bruder!"_ The other boy jogged up towards them, slapping the American on the shoulder good-naturedly. It was then, rather belatedly at that, that Arthur recognized the boy as one of their teammates on the ill-fated game the day before: the Assistant Principal's nephew, Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"Well then, hurry on up, _bruder._ Everyone's been waiting on the two of you, since we gotta jet sooner rather than later." Gilbert was saying rather enthusiastically to their fellow Junior, who nodded approvingly with a grin rivaling that of the albino's own. 

The Briton paused in his inspection of the corridor, then, and with a questioning raise of his formidable brows, he questioned the duo. "We'll be doing _what?"_

Alfred turned towards the confused male, then, and grinned cheekily. "We're ditching class." 

_"What?!"_ Yes, he yelped, there was no denying that. Alfred moved closer to Arthur, squeezing his hand gently as he did so.

"I'm going to answer one question which you probably haven't asked yet," he explained vaguely, "and Gil and the others are gonna help me." He looked into those green eyes, silently willing him to agree. 

Finally Arthur sighed, reciprocating the small squeeze of the hand Alfred had given him. "Fine," he acquiesced, stopping the premature celebration he knew the American was planning somewhere inside his mind. "But first you need to tell me: what _is_ this question you're referring to?"

His fellow Junior had stopped at the end of the hall, sparing a glance towards where Gilbert knocked thrice against the wall, and a trapdoor opened overhead, a ladder being lowered to their level.

It was all he could do to keep from expressing his surprise. 

Alfred leaned forward, whispering softly, _"'What does it mean to be forgotten?'"_ He pulled back sooner than the Briton expected, however, and offered one of his subdued smiles, accompanied with another squeeze of the hand, his thumb tracing reassuring circles upon his skin.

"You know, Kirkland, you're not the only misfit in this shithole," Gilbert grinned as he started up the ladder, gesturing for the duo to follow him. He swung the trapdoor open even further, climbing up through it and waited until the other two were fully inside before he nodded towards the space around them with an additional grandiose gesture. 

"Meet the Awesome Squad, led by yours truly."

"Come on, Gil, you know that's not the true name of our fine infamous group, _amigo,"_ another voice piped up, and Arthur squinted to make out green eyes, a shade or two darker than his own, which were almost covered by dark hair. 

_"Oui, mon ami,"_ said a long-haired blond seated some ways off from the first one who'd spoken. "We have a much proper name compared to that."

"And what the bloody hell is that?" Arthur grumbled. (Alfred elbowed him for that comment, which he wisely ignored.)

They all grinned, and he couldn't help the shiver that ran down his spine.

_"Welcome to the 'Suicide Squadron', Arthur Kirkland."_


	7. s i x

s i x

_« w h e r e d w e l l t h e l o n e l y a n d t h e b r a v e »_

_"Can ye tell me what ye were plannin' to use these for, Art?"_

_He froze, watching the flames dance and reflect in his elder brother's green eyes, similar to his own, yet darker and glimmering with knowledge Arthur could barely guess at at the moment. His gaze flickered down to the glinting array upon the glass top of the coffee table set between them, the razor-sharp edges of the small blades seeming to leer at him in silent accusation._

_Camden seemed to slouch nonchalantly upon his armchair, holding up a cup of tea to his lips and taking a sip, before setting it down upon the table with little more than a nearly inaudible clink. He'd taken off his reading glasses sometime before Arthur returned from bidding Alfred goodbye (which comprised of the Briton interrogating him as to what went down between him and his elder brother, which the American skillfully avoided with a parting kiss to his cheek as a gentle manner of saying, 'See you tomorrow,' before leaving Arthur with heavily flushed cheeks and sputtering protests until the other Junior left his sight), and appeared to be quite deep in thought as he regarded his younger brother with a placid gaze._

_He cleared his throat—as mundane as an action as it was, it barely managed to help clear his thoughts, which were rapidly being tainted with panic and utter confusion. Had Alfred told his brother of his scars, of his 'tendencies'? Or was it—_

_"I'm not too much of a bloody git ta' not know about what ye've been doing, Arthur," the elder Kirkland interrupted the cacophony of his thoughts, which twisted and tumbled, leading him on a wild goose chase which seemingly had no end._

_"I already knew even when I first saw ye at that hospital back over the pond—I knew ye wanted to die."_

**—**

To his confusion, none of the members seemed to be joking as they, as one, collectively announced the name of their group.

There were many whom he recognised, for starters; most of the group seemed to be people whom he knew from class, and had been his teammates during the disastrous game of Capture the Flag the day before. 

There was Elizaveta, who was chatting to a stoic young man with dark brown hair and purple eyes, an almost displeased look lingering upon the tight line of his lips. There was also Matthew, Alfred's cousin, who was sitting next to a cheery Feliciano with an expression of mild discomfort, as the Italian was talking enthusiastically (and rather loudly) to a lad with gelled blond hair and icy blue eyes. And then there was the albino, Gilbert, who was reclining comfortably in between two people Arthur didn't know: a boy with tan skin, curly dark hair and olive green eyes, and another with sleek, shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes, with just a hint of stubble upon a defined jaw. 

He'd stiffened up at the moment he'd heard the group's name—for who wouldn't, when he had heard so many rumours of the notorious group of outcasts?

The _'Suicide Squadron'_ —where dwell the lonely and the brave.

"It's okay," He heard a voice whisper into his ear, and a hand gently squeezed his own. "They're not all bad, Art—they're just here to help me out."

He barely managed a scoff. "I wasn't thinking that—"

There was a muffled noise, as if it was turned into a cough at the last second, of _"Bullshit,"_ from the direction of a snickering trio. Arthur promptly glared at them, somewhat tempted to deck whomever had insinuated that he'd been intimidated, of all things, by this ragtag collection of misfits. _(Misfits who are like you,_ his mind remarked snidely, which was ignored by the Briton.)

Before he could even act upon his violent train of thought (which was sounding more and more tempting with every second that passed by), a hand suddenly grabbed his arse, squeezing almost imperceptibly, but the movement was there all the same. And oh, was Arthur pissed.

"You've definitely chosen a fine one, _mon ami,"_ an annoying voice sounded somewhere within his vicinity, still very much keeping a fine grip on his rear. Arthur had already stiffened, hands balling into white-knuckled fists. "Such a plump _derriere_ for one so lanky—a pity about those _monstrous_ eyebrows, however—"

That was the last straw. No one, absolutely _no one_ got away with insulting his eyebrows, of all things, much less a damn Frenchman. (And Arthur was quite certain that that was the nationality of the infuriating bloke who still kept a persistent hold upon his arse.)

With another harsh grind of his teeth, the Briton whirled around on his heel and brought up his fist, driving it hard into the well-structured jaw of the stranger. He was still bristling as the Frenchman recovered, staggering from the force of the hit with a hand gingerly touching where he'd been struck and a disbelieving look set upon the irate Englishman. 

_"Merde."_ The boy muttered, spitting out what seemed to be blood, as Arthur took note of it with morbid satisfaction. "'Ow can you do this to my beautiful face, _sourcils?!"_

"Serves you right, you bleedin' Frog," he growled fiercely, vaguely aware that he was still very much in the presence of the other members of the Suicide Squadron. (He wasn't sure if they approved of him hitting one of their own, and he could hardly care at the moment. He still needed to deliver more of his divine retribution for this perverted wanker touching his goddamned arse.) "Why, I ought to—"

_"Annd_ that's enough," Alfred interjected, stepping in between of the two before Arthur could even get another hit in, much to his irritation. The American grinned sheepishly, flicking an apologetic glance towards the Frenchman, who was still bemoaning the fact that he would likely garner a beautiful bruise from the punch, before glancing back at Arthur. "Sorry about Franny, Artie; he's just like that to everyone."

He snorted, crossing his arms across his torso. "Of course he is. Bloody French snail-gobbling bastard." He grumbled some more, turning away from the said boy, who sniffed derisively before sashaying off to his pair of friends. With another huff, Arthur spared the American a glance.

"Well? I thought we were 'ditching class', or something of the sort. Where on this bloody Earth are you planning to take me?"

The sunny grin on Alfred's face immediately faltered, smoothing out into a placid mask as he turned towards a silent Elizaveta, who had been standing nearby with the boy she'd been talking to. She gave him a brief nod in return, fiddling with a small package she'd procured from her shoulder bag. With that signal, Alfred turned towards the inquisitive Briton with a tentative, bittersweet smile.

"It's time for you to meet the founder of the Suicide Squadron."

**—**

_"He—"_

_"An' before ye ask," Camden interrupted, flicking a glance up towards his tense sibling, whose expression still retained tangible traces of evident horror and disbelief, despite his attempts to wipe it all away from his features, "No, yer friend didn't tell me. Woulda been a moot point, since I already knew."_

_So Alfred didn't sell him out. Arthur had to withhold a sigh of relief at that—which he immediately questioned. Why on earth was he relieved that the damn American hadn't told the truth to his brother? It didn't change anything—Camden still knew, even if Alfred hadn't told him a thing about Arthur's suicidal tendencies._

_But then.. Why was he still relieved to know that?_

_He crossed his arms, keeping a pointed glare upon his elder brother as he shifted his weight to his other foot. "So?"_

_The red-haired man set down his cup, still half-filled with cooling tea, upon the table after taking one last sip, before lacing his fingers together. Olive green eyes met with hardened emerald, neither backing down in a silent exchange of wills. "Don't test me, lad," Camden spoke quietly, yet still keeping a firm, no-nonsense tone of voice. "Ye'll answer me, and don't lie—I can tell when ye are._

_"Why do ye want to die?"_

**—**

Surprisingly enough, sneaking out became quite the adventure when one was in the right (or wrong, depending upon how you looked at it) company.

After several minutes of surreptitiously checking if the surveillance cameras' feeds were set on loop (courtesy of a terrifying Elizaveta, with some help from the Japanese lad from their class named Kiku Honda), Arthur—alongside the rest of the Suicide Squadron—filed out one by one from the hidden room they'd been hiding in for the latter half of their first period. 

He'd heard the bell ring sometime during a heated discussion between the German _["Prussian,_ for _Gott's_ sake!"] albino named Gilbert and the intimidating bloke Feliciano had been conversing with, which the Briton found out to be Gilbert's younger brother, Ludwig. He'd heard vague snippets from the discussion, mainly focusing upon causing distractions so they could get out faster, preferably with pranks against the Social Hierarchy's Royals, which was vetoed by some, but in the end was approved by an enthusiastic Alfred.

And so it was—a pair, consisting of the albino Prussian and his Frog friend (who was introduced as 'Francis Bonnefoy' to a still very much pissed off Arthur) would set out first, twenty minutes before the rest would get out of hiding, and commit a string of pranks all across World Academy's campus as a distraction. The rest would wait for ten minutes after it had all been committed, after checking if the surveillance cameras in their path leading out of campus were indeed set on a loop, showing feed from an hour before the pranks were committed. They would make use of the time frame the distraction bought them to successfully get out of campus (hopefully far enough away before the teachers were alarmed by the nosy Royals and curious Commoners), and the Idiot Duo (as Arthur had taken to calling the distraction pair, to the Squadron's amusement) would meet them at their rendezvous point.

It was quite the ridiculous yet meticulously designed plan for one which had been seemingly thought up on the fly, and the Englishman couldn't help but be admittedly impressed. It likely took some skill for this ragtag group to be able to pull such a sequence of events off—which they did, with a great amount of flair.

Literally.

"Damn, I knew Gil worked pretty damn fast, but this is better than his record." Alfred whistled softly as he assisted the volatile Briton in climbing over the intricate railings set at the very top of the walls bordering the campus grounds. Arthur kicked him over the head for averting his gaze, but nevertheless lifted his head up to see a wisp of black smoke coming from the direction of the building which housed the Home Economics classrooms. 

"What in the...?" He began, yelping as his footstool (aka a certain exuberant American) suddenly moved away from the wall, allowing the poor sandy-blond male to quite literally topple from his perch atop the wall and down into the taller boy's arms. He grunted, flopping in an ungraceful manner as Alfred managed to catch him on time.

When the world seemed to right itself, Arthur mustered up the strength to whack the idiot on the upside of his head, with an additional tug on the golden-blond locks so that the grimacing American could face his glowering visage. _"What in the bloody fucking hell was that for, Jones?"_ He growled, adjusting his awkward position enough to but into the taller boy's personal space with a murderous glare. "I could've smashed my damn head in for all you care!"

Alfred had the grace to look even the slightest bit chagrined, though it was tarnished by the fact that his normally sun-kissed skin had flushed a lovely scarlet, and he was looking away from the Briton's heated stare. "...I know, I'm sorry, Artie"—a harsh wince emitted from his lips as Arthur wrenched at his hair as punishment for the horrid nickname—"but can you just, ah, remove your hand from my hair..?"

He lifted an eyebrow in questioning, verdant green eyes still very much narrowed. "And why should I?" He demanded, twisting a particular lock even tighter around his grip. Alfred seemed to tremble, cheeks colouring an even deeper red, and what seemed to be a groan slipped from between clenched teeth.

"Just... just let go." The American managed, breathing harshly. Arthur could feel it fanning across his face, their noses bumping together as Alfred rested his forehead against his.

The Englishman waited, seeming to hesitate, before he tugged slightly at the remaining lock he held captive—

—and the taller boy's head tilted up, slightly chapped lips meeting his. 

It wasn't even something which could be considered as a kiss of a sort; it was a brief point of contact, a mere brushing of lips, before they broke apart and Arthur managed to push himself out of the shellshocked American's arms. He tumbled to the uneven ground, bracing himself on unsteady feet.

He could probably consider himself to be lucky that the rest of the so-called Suicide Squadron had headed deeper down the path to scout out the route and wait for them at its end; at least, nobody bore witness to their rather awkward not-kiss. (Because it definitely _wasn't_ one. Not at all.)

The Briton stood some distance away from the American, whose gaze he could feel was still settled quite uncertainly upon his stiff form. Several beats of tense silence later, Arthur cleared his throat, crossing his arms across his torso.

"As far as we're concerned, that never happened," he stated firmly, although the barely there flush of crimson upon his pale, freckled cheeks told that he was thinking of the opposite of his words. "Now let's go; we're wasting time."

Alfred nodded, and together—yet with some distance between them—the forest swallowed them whole.

**—**

_"That's none of your business."_

_One glance. One small glance at his brother's expression was enough to tell Arthur that the redhead wasn't impressed with his answer. Of course, who would have been? His voice had trembled, despite his greatest efforts to keep it steady, and his muscles were already pulled taut, coiled tight in preparation to flee—as if one ill-chosen word could snap him altogether._

_Somewhere deep within his subconscious, Arthur smiled grimly. He'd already snapped a long time ago—he didn't need a trigger._

_"I told ye not to lie." Camden began, and when he lifted his gaze, the younger felt a particularly ominous shiver pass through his stiff limbs. "I knew I should've told ye not to avoid the question altogether. But that's what ye're good at, ain't it, Artiekins? Avoiding everybody like they're the plague, dodging questions as if they could break ye when ye hear them, running away when ye should've been there, that's all ye've been good at, haven't ye?"_

**—**

Rosewood Cemetery could have been a particularly pleasant spot to be hanging out at in the middle of a school day if one didn't count the facts that a) it was a graveyard, and b) they were, quite frankly, ditching class—an act which Arthur had never done before.. until then, that was.

The paved pathways which led into the place were bordered with well-kept rose bushes, hence the name of the cemetery. They twisted around several groves set intermittently between the many rows of graves and several family mausoleums placed strategically around the area, often with several elegant trees—though bereft of their luscious foliage—placed some distance apart from each other.

As Arthur looked around, he kept close to the rest of the Squadron, all of whom had surprisingly become silent as soon as they'd stepped through the metal gates of the graveyard, a somber air replacing their light-hearted laughter. He pulled his jacket closer around himself, somewhat wishing that he'd brought a scarf with him. He hadn't known that he'd be anywhere outside of campus on a frustratingly chilly autumn day, with the seasons slowly but surely shifting into winter.

No thanks to a certain idiotic American, he was now trudging along at a snail-like pace to who knows where in this sprawling cemetery. All he knew that he was about to meet someone—but who could that someone be, and who was crazy enough to set a graveyard as a rendezvous point?

Oh, perhaps no one other than the leader of the notorious 'Suicide Squadron', he internally grumbled, burying his hands deeper into his pockets in order to retain at least some of his body heat. It was futile, however, and Arthur mentally cursed his inability to be practical at certain times. 

He walked along, well aware that the tip of his nose was probably turning red from the cold, and he probably looked the part of an immensely disgruntled Rudolph the goddamn red-nosed reindeer. Beneath his dark eyebrows, Arthur scowled fiercely, glaring at the winding path they were taking.

Just when were they going to arrive at whatever place they wanted to bring him to?

He huffed a bit more, miffed when the fabric of his jeans got caught against the thorns of one particularly wild rose bush (or what seemed like one, at least), before he tugged himself free. With that small victory against the bush, he continued on, staring at Alfred's back as the American ambled along in front of him.

None of the Squadron had said much aside from hushed whispers now and then as soon as they passed beneath the marble archway leading into the cemetery, Alfred included, though he occasionally sent Arthur a glance. It was as if he was checking on him, which was a ridiculous thought.

If anyone needed an overseer, it was Alfred, what with all of his exuberant hyperactivity, wide, beaming grins befitting of some toothpaste advertiser, coercive blue eyes and his voice, which alternated between being cajoling and being irritatingly whiny. The Briton was proud to say that he was the more mature one out of the two, and thus didn't need the younger man to look after him, as he could do that just fine on his own.

Speaking of the rather bubbly American, the boy seemed to be more subdued as he glanced at Arthur, and their eyes met. There was an exhausted look to those blue eyes, which were a dull, steel blue colour as opposed to the usual bright azure. A strained grin tugged at the corners of his lips, which fell immediately after the Briton walked forward even faster, placing a hand on the ex-football quarterback's arm.

"Penny for your thoughts, lad?" Arthur murmured, as if speaking louder than a breathless whisper might disturb the somewhat eerie tranquility of the graveyard as they walked on by. 

Alfred mustered a half hearted grin. "I'd rather get a dollar or two, y'know, since my thoughts are too awesome to be worth just a penny." 

There was an ungentlemanly snort from the sandy-blond male.

A minute or two passed, and with a sigh, the Briton lifted his hand from where he'd placed it on the boy's arm and reached up, ruffling the tousled blond locks. Alfred let out a startled yelp, ducking away from Arthur's reach as the green eyes watched him with an unimpressed gaze.

"It doesn't suit you," Arthur muttered, just low enough that if Alfred didn't strain himself, he wouldn't hear it. "It doesn't suit you to look so tired of everything."

A soft, gentle smile made its way to the American's lips. Moving closer, he draped an arm around the Briton's shoulders, pulled him close to his chest, and leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of his head.

For once, he didn't push him away—yet his thoughts were still adrift.

Because Arthur knew that someday, something would cause him to run away again.

**—**

_All he could see was red, red, red, red._

_He breathed deeply, pulling in as much of the oxygen his lungs craved and his body wanted to reject just so he could suffocate himself altogether. And he let it all out._

_"You're right." Arthur replied—and his voice was calm, steady as the hands which uncurled from his previously white-knuckled fists. He looked up and into those dark, olive eyes, which had widened as their stares met._

_He was smiling—but it wasn't like how he used to smile._

_Camden could see how much pain, how much sorrow, how much regret there were in those green eyes. He could see the tears which his younger brother was trying so desperately to hold back._

_He could see how much he had been shattered, inside out._

**—**

It took a while before they finally arrived at their destination.

It was surprising how much faster time seemed to pass when Arthur was pressed close to Alfred's side, listening to the taller boy's rapid heartbeat and his soft voice as he sang while they walked. His arm had moved from his shoulders and instead held him against him by way of the hand on his left upper arm. 

It was only when they entered a small grove that Alfred let Arthur go, his arm dropping back to his side as he moved to the front of the group. The Briton hadn't even noticed that they'd already stopped until the American had already moved.

He looked up, observing the path which led to a large oak tree in the distance, cutting through rows and rows of marble graves. He stepped closer, following the line the Squadron had made as they proceeded down the path, right up until they stood beneath the leaves of the oak tree.

A single marble grave was erected between its gnarled roots, surrounded by bouquets of flowers—forget-me-nots and red roses. 

What were they doing here? Arthur thought, reaching out a hand to touch the petal of one of the flowers, a bright blue forget-me-not. He could sense the presence of the rest of the Suicide Squadron at his back, although the crunch of the dried twigs and leaves beneath their feet heralded only one person coming closer to him.

"Arthur,"—he turned, and those green eyes met with sad blue—

"I'd like you to meet the founder and the reason behind the creation of the Suicide Squadron," Alfred smiled—and it was the same smile as Arthur had given his elder brother, Camden, the night before.

"Lovino Vargas, who committed suicide at the age of fifteen."

**—**

_"Why do I want to die?" Arthur repeated softly, brokenly, and Camden didn't want to hear anything more._

_"It's because I don't deserve to be remembered."_


	8. s e v e n

s e v e n

_« t h e t a l e o f t h e b o y n o o n e k n e w »_

_He was standing on the back steps._

_A hand was pushed deep into his pockets, likely tightly clenched, if the scowl on the shorter male's face was anything to go by. The other clutched a parcel close to his chest, as if protecting it from the world—or using it as a defense against all odds._

_Whichever the case was, Alfred was confused as to why his best friend had decided to venture out during a particularly chilly February eve, glaring at him as if he'd done him wrong. He decided to look through his memories of the past week, just in case he had indeed unknowingly pissed off Lovino, as it had been known to happen a time or two in the past._

_He didn't recall anything in particular, so he was unsure as to what the reason was that it had brought the volatile Italian to his back door, huffing impatiently and digging the soles of his scuffed sneakers into the scratched up wood of the steps leading into the back of the house. Nevertheless, the American buried his hands into the worn pockets of his oversized hoodie and plastered one of his bright grins on his face._

_"What's up, Vargas?" Alfred greeted, bracing himself against the doorframe._

_"The fucking_ sky, _Jones," The Italian responded in his usual grumpy manner. "And a shitty dark as fuck sky it is at the moment. I thought you already knew that,_ bastardo."

_He snorted, rolling his eyes skyward in response, before licking his chapped lips and delving into the heart of the matter. "Quit it with the sarcasm," he muttered, "we both know that's not what I meant. So cut the bullshit and come on in; I know you've got somethin' to say, else you wouldn't have sought me out at seven in the evening when it's already freezing as all hell out here."_

_The auburn-haired boy scoffed, rubbing at his reddening nose with the back of his free hand as he followed Alfred up onto the unlit wrap-around porch of the house. Amber eyes regarded the taller almost curiously as the American reached for the light switch, turning it on, before a harsh cough ripped free from a hoarse throat._

_"Right, right, you know_ everything, _don't you," It's said as a sentence, despite the fact that the way it's been phrased shows that it should have been a wry question. "You've always been the almighty, omnipotent 'Crown Prince' of the fucking 'Social Hierarchy', anyway."_

_His grin fell into a deeply set frown as he turned to look as his best friend, ignoring the way his hands ached to be curled into tight fists. "That's not it—"_

_Lovino was scowling even more so, arms holding the package close to his torso. He hadn't noticed it when he'd first taken a look at the Italian, but.._

_His features first softened in concern as he took in the sight of the younger boy's split lip, the cut on his cheek and the darkening bruises circling his neck, which was almost hidden by a scarf in a futile attempt to cover it from prying eyes. Unease coiled in his gut, before being replaced by burning anger._

_It had happened_ again, _and he hadn't been there to stop it._

_(Stupid, stupid doctor's appointment; he had to make an excuse to the coach again.)_

_"What happened?" He growled. Alfred glared at the worn floorboards beneath their feet, unable to stomach the sight of his injured friend. God, he'd been useless again, hadn't he? He couldn't even do anything to stop this even though he apparently wielded a lot of influence over the other students in the Academy, as proven by his high rank in the Hierarchy._

_Internally, he scoffed at the thought. High rank, his ass. What good was it anyway, when he couldn't even use it to help one of the people he cared for most?_

_"Was it Emma? Michelle? No.. It was that scary communist bitch again—Natalya—wasn't it?" Alfred snarled in his tirade as Lovino huffed, shaking his head. With the paperboy cap off his head and the scarf tugged down from its place as soon as they'd headed inside the house and into the kitchen, he could see that the Italian had been having a femme day—which was probably the reason why the bigoted pricks in their school picked on him—no, he corrected himself,_ 'her'— _again._

_She looked at him with a dull look to her amber eyes, pulling off her coat as she leaned against the kitchen counter. "What did you expect?" Lovino asked flatly. She smoothed out the skirt she was wearing, paired with black leggings and knee-high boots, picking at the rips in the cloth. Upon further inspection, the button-up shirt she had on was ripped at the hems, heavily stained with paint. Clumps of it were also still stuck in her auburn hair, as if she'd tried to wash it out, but had only gotten most of it._

_"They've fucking hated me even before I started dating the damn tomato bastard," she huffed, now picking at the dried paint on her shirt. "What makes you think that since I'd been dealing with their goddamned bullshit for so fucking long that they'd miraculously stop now?"_

_Alfred bit his lip, watching how his best friend's eyes darkened in sheer bitterness and resentment._

_"I might technically be a 'Royal'," Lovino muttered balefully, "but to those bitches and bastards in that hierarchy, it isn't worth shit. And I can't tell Feli—_ mio Dio, _everybody knows that that whiny_ fratello _of mine can't even fight for himself for nothing."_

_She'd placed the parcel on the countertop, the flat rectangular thing barely taking up space on the pristine tiles. With a hiss, she dug his nails into the skin of her left wrist, not at all minding the fact that her scars were in plain view of the American._

_He already knew, anyway—he'd always known Lovino better than anyone else ever did._

_To the belligerent, foul-mouthed Italian, Alfred was his best friend, his confidant, his training dummy for his insults and violent tendencies other than the happy-go-lucky Spaniard he called his boyfriend. He was the one who bore witness to the darkest spectrum of Lovino's lies, regrets, denials—all of the bloodstained and tear-streaked confessions he couldn't bear Antonio hearing nor bearing witness to._

_Alfred F. Jones was Lovino Vargas' living, breathing journal of every single thing that no one cared to know about him—_

_And the American knew that it was only a matter of time before his auburn-haired best friend decided that he didn't want to be remembered any longer._

**—**

Maybe it wasn't easier this way.

He was looking at him, now, and there was _something_ in those eyes he didn't want to see. Realization was painted onto his features, pale lips parted as a breath of disbelief passed through in a small, condensed cloud, before dissipating altogether.

Alfred watched him, watched the heavy bob of the Briton's Adam's apple when he swallowed, before he tried to say something, anything. There was confusion there in his face, a sense of tension in the hard lines of his figure.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur whispered. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because you have a right to know the truth," Elizaveta said softly. She stood just behind his figure, hands clasped in her lap and her head down, gazing at the ground. "You have a right to know what everyone else in World Academy is trying so hard to cover up. You have a right to know what happened during what's now known as 'The Tragedy'."

The unspoken words are there, lingering in the atmosphere.

_Before it happens to you, too._

Alfred wanted nothing more than to reach out and wipe away the evident distress, the panic in those green eyes as pieces of the puzzle the American had given him all those days ago started to fit together.

He wanted to explain, to say that it would all be okay—

But how could it be, Alfred bitterly mused. When had telling the tale of one's best friend committing suicide ever been considered 'okay'?

There was nothing 'okay' about this situation, nothing at all. But it had to be done.

Arthur didn't need a hero, Alfred knew that—he needed someone who understood how it was to lose everything. He needed someone who knew what it was like,

To be so full of everything and yet still be hollow.

_To die inside even when you were still alive._

"Lovino Vargas was seven years old." He began, and already he was regretting this— _oh God,_ could he stop even before he said these acidic words? "He already knew what it was like to be unloved."

_Arthur Kirkland was seven years old._

_He already knew what it was like to be unwanted._

"He was a little boy, older by fifteen minutes compared to his small, weak _fratello,"_ Feliciano continued, and Arthur looked up to see the tears in the Italian's amber eyes. "He was pushed aside, verbally beaten for the lack of abilities he was told that he should've had in our grandfather's eyes. He was called useless, worthless. He was told that he couldn't do anything right, even just to exist."

Trembling, the younger boy reached up to wipe away his tears, before he forged on, spinning the tale of a boy no one really knew.

No one knew him until he finally gave up.

_He was a little boy, the youngest of three brothers at the time of his birth. (That would change later on with the birth of his siblings Ciaran and Peter, but that was years later.) He was physically tormented, mocked for his firm belief in the supernatural and the Fey. He was called weak, useless, worthless. He wasn't enough._

"And he grew up believing every single word he was told." Alfred wasn't looking away, wasn't trying to pretend that everything was still fine and dandy as he met the Briton's conflicted gaze. "He grew up in a family where he had to prove his worth day by day. He knew he was different. But being different meant that he wouldn't fit in."

_He was never enough._

"He was nine years old when he first met his 'tomato bastard'," this time, a voice with a Spanish accent joined in. It was the boy with the dark, curly hair, his eyes a muted olive green colour, awash with grief. "He didn't _want_ to care; he didn't want to be cared for. Because he'll only be hurt in the end, he thought; everyone left, everyone abandoned him because he wasn't good enough. He was defective, flawed, immensely imperfect."

_He was nine years old when his eldest brother left, abandoning him for the far-off shores of the United States, just to achieve his dreams. He didn't want to trust anyone who left as suddenly as Camden did—yet little Peter wormed past the barriers of his heart and made him care._

_But even he left him—and it was all his fault._

"Lovino was thirteen years old when he realised that he didn't conform to the standard two genders. It was either he was female, or that he was male, sometimes lingering in an in-between state which confused him. He was scared," and Arthur couldn't look away from those eyes as they looked right at him, anchoring him to the spot he stood upon when all he wanted to do was drift away, escape, leave and never turn back. There was something in those eyes which called out to him, begged him to listen, haunted his rapidly beating heart, and unconsciously, he took in a sharp inhale of air.

"He was scared of what it meant. He's already different and he was terrified, angry at himself for being even more of a _freak."_ The word was punctuated with a bitter undertone, sharp and unrelenting, enough that it made Arthur flinch. "He'd known that his parents wouldn't accept him for who he was—'cause really, he was already a mistake, wasn't he? He'd been told that repeatedly over the years, and he'd accepted it."

There was no change in tone, no inflection, as the American whispered the next words.

"He'd accepted that he wasn't worth anything in his parents' eyes."

_Arthur was thirteen years old when he realised that everything wasn't going to be the same again. Faolan had started burying himself into his studies, determined to move out of the house to follow Camden's lead. This resulted in nearly nightly arguments between his parents and the rebellious twenty-year-old, and caused Arthur to try and protect his younger brothers from Faolan's outbursts. It came to a point of no return when the second eldest moved out of the house without even saying farewell, to the dismay of their parents._

_Their family was crumbling, tearing apart from the inside out, ripping at the seams from each member's conflicting ideals and dreams. He wasn't strong enough to pull them back together, to take back what they'd lost._

_He'd accepted that what once was could never be again._

_"M-mio fratello_ was only fourteen when he started cutting himself," Feliciano was crying now, trembling uncontrollably as he tried to wipe away his tears. They spilled past his fingers, and down his palms, curling around his wrists in gleaming rivulets—like the blood that trickled down his twin brother's arms that night. "He'd lock himself into his room, never opening the door for anyone, a-and he-he'd cut his arms again and again. He wouldn't stop."

The Italian took in a shaky inhale, "He c-couldn't stop, even when I begged him, begged him to stop, just _stop, per favore,_ when it was too much. He'd shout at me to get out and leave him alone, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. Th-then he'd tell me, 'Feli, I'm not worth it.' He'd say that when I tried to get him to stop, when I'd take the blade away or wipe away his tears. 'Feli,' Lovi would say again and again, 'Forget about me.'"

_He was only fourteen when he first cut himself. He hadn't thought about the consequences at the time; he only wanted release for everything he'd done wrong, for every fault he saw in himself. So he snatched a small blade from his Mum's sewing kit and locked himself in his room, and he began._

_It wasn't deep, just a shallow cut with barely any blood, but it took away the pain of being a disappointment to his family, even for a little while. It was better to be hurt physically than to ache deep within, where the agony would fester in his heart and corrupt his mind._

_Physical wounds would heal, but his heart would not. He would always be a disappointment, he knew that as he looked at his first cut, almost unnoticeable upon the skin of his left wrist._

_He would never be enough. (Even if he died, there was nothing of worth to remember him by.)_

Bile crept up his throat as he looked at the Squadron, all of whom were solemn and silent as Alfred walked forward, facing the horror-struck Briton with sad eyes.

Memories of his own life flickered past his mind's eye, try as he might to push them back into the depths and locked away from his scrutiny. He didn't want to look at who he was, he didn't want to see how much he was like the boy whose life was taken too soon, the boy this ragtag group of teenagers all cared about, the boy who was much too similar to the Englishman.

The story wasn't over yet, he could see; the American moved closer, holding out the package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied off with a piece of black ribbon, nothing fancy, and was of considerable bulk. Arthur took it as it was held out before him, untying the ribbon and opening the package with shaking hands.

It contained two things: a leather-bound journal, stained with ink, and a smartphone, currently turned off.

Arthu looked up at Alfred, who in turn forced his lips up into a hollow smile.

"If there was something that Lovino believed in, it was in being remembered. He'd always said that the world was full of lies, shitty people claiming to be somebody they weren't, wanting to be remembered for something they'd never done. He didn't want that; he didn't want lies fouling up who he really was, which was why he'd never taken shit from the bitches in the Hierarchy without fighting back. And he did fight back," His voice grew low, quiet in its barely concealed sorrow, "he fought back against the rumours about him and Antonio, he fought back when he was called a freak for being gender-fluid. He fought back against the Hierarchy even when he couldn't take it any longer."

Arthur looked up at Alfred, his breath stolen from his lungs. He watched as the boy smiled—

And a lone tear trickled down his cheek.

"Lovino Vargas was fifteen years old when he committed suicide. And all he had wanted was to be remembered by those he cared for most."

He had been a lonely child, a disappointment, a failure, unworthy of praise in his own eyes even when he was told otherwise as he excelled at his academic career. He had beaten himself up and cut his own wrists when he had been left behind by those he loved.

He told himself he was worth nothing, even when a stupid, annoying _(endearing)_ American boy told him he was worth everything.

Arthur Kirkland was seventeen years old.

And he realised that all he ever wanted was to be remembered by those he cared for most.


	9. e i g h t

e i g h t

_« b e t w e e n t h e s i n n e r s a n d t h e s a i n t s »_

_Arthur Kirkland was many things, but he had always known that he was beyond saving._

_He walked alongside him, wrapped in his thoughts—entangled in the pessimistic web he had always woven for himself. He had been his own tormentor, his own persecutor. Even now, he couldn't understand how a virtual stranger—an American by the name of Alfred F. Jones—could find him to be someone worth saving beneath his broken exterior._

_And so he stopped, his footsteps cutting an abrupt halt upon the sidewalk. He curled his fingers into fists by his side, a shuddering breath forced past his lips in a cloud of mist._ (Christ, _he thought, it really_ was _cold.)_

_"Alfred," he began, hating the way his voice cracked at the last syllable of the boy's name. "Why are you doing this? I'm—"_

_The words were caught in his throat, produced by the constant venomous whispers of his brain and ensnared by stupid, stupid hesitation sealing his lips shut and rendering his tongue useless._

Weak. Foolish. Useless. Worthless. Unimportant—

_A slight twitch of the lips was all he could see before the American turned, and those lips pressed chastely upon his forehead, his arms wrapped loosely around his waist._

_"You're important." He whispered. "Maybe not to them, maybe not to anyone else, maybe not as much—but at least, to one person in this world, you_ are." _His voice was quiet, gentle and unassuming amidst the brisk autumn air. (Or perhaps it was already winter?) Alfred smiled, placing a hand on the Briton's cheek. His thumb caught a tear Arthur hadn't known had started to fall, wiping it gently away._

_"You're important to me."_

_"You—" and he stopped there, a lump seemingly lodged in his throat. "You damn git," he finally said, much to the laughter of the taller boy. "Saying such bloody stupid things should be made illegal, goddamn it..."_

_"It ain't stupid," Alfred returned cheekily, tucking his nose into the messed-up locks of Arthur's blond hair. (He could practically feel the American's every breath on the crown of his head, those lips buried into the tousled mess that every time he spoke, it dislodged the golden strands and spun them into more of a rat's nest.)_

_"It is." Arthur replied, clearing his throat in order to futilely ward off the emotional sobs threatening to break free._

_He sensed the ex-quarterback's lips pulling up into a grin, and he was pulled even deeper into the boy's embrace._

_"It ain't stupid," Alfred repeated, "because it's true. You're important to me."_

**—**

Two weeks.

That had been the span of time in which the Squadron decided to let him be on his own, so that he could try to parse out as much of the information he had been given. That had been the promised amount of time that they would give him space: fourteen days of not-quite freedom. (Not quite, because the latter of those two weeks was their examinations week, and nobody wanted to socialise as much when Algebraic theorems and postulates, Physics equations and essays in History and English were kicking their arses. Not to mention the projects they had, apparently, conveniently forgotten to do until the last minute.)

It was now about late December, more than a month since that day in the graveyard, and still, the Suicide Squadron were nowhere to be found in pestering a certain Arthur Kirkland.

He stood before the crosswalk, one hand stuffed deep into the pocket of his blessedly warm jacket, the other holding onto his phone. Its display flashed with the wallpaper Alfred had set without his knowledge, and he hadn't quite figured out how to change it just yet. (Because even after all this time he was using his smartphone, he'd never really gotten around to changing its default wallpaper, nor did he bother trying to figure out how he was supposed to do that in the first place, thus leading him to this crisis.)

The picture in itself was alright, in actuality. It was a photo of him and Alfred when he hadn't been paying enough attention during that same afternoon when the boy had been walking him home from Rosewood Cemetery.

In the picture, the American's arm was slung around his shoulders, and he wasn't looking at the camera, but at the Briton, his features set in a small, sweet smile as he nuzzled into his hair. Arthur, in the photo, was attempting to push him away, cheeks starting to redden in embarrassment, and the beginnings of a protest was already apparent in the way his features were scrunched into a scowl.

Okay, he admitted to himself after he crossed the road and snuck a glance at his wallpaper once again. It _was_ rather cute. (But unforgivable—the damn idiot hadn't taken the time to warn him that he was taking a picture, nor did he say that it was with _Arthur's_ phone, of all things. And he even set it as his wallpaper! The nerve of that American boy, honestly...)

He huffed—absolutely not in fondness for a certain ex-quarterback, mind you—and a tentative half-smile played at his lips as he meandered down the sidewalk in search of the small edifice that he'd been meaning to find. On a Saturday morning such as this, it was quite a miracle that he hadn't been crushed to death by a mad rush of pedestrians just yet, but he would take what he could.

Arthur turned around the corner, taking in all of the Christmas décor in the shoppes he passed by, until he saw a tell-tale flag with thirteen stars instead of fifty waving in the chilly December breeze in the distance. He stopped in his tracks as he neared the café, and yet another huff escaped his lips.

Of course it was just like the said American boy to invite him to check out a café named _Sons of Libertea,_ Arthur mused as he saw said ex-quarterback waving him over from where he stood in front of the store.

Alfred was rocking back and forth on his heels as the Briton drew near. With a wry smirk, Arthur shook his head as a grin brightened the taller boy's features.

"About time ya' got here!" Alfred exclaimed, greeting the shorter male with an enthusiastic hug which left him in need of air. He grinned, pulling back, and it was only then that Arthur noticed something different. "C'mon, c'mon, I've been waiting for ya' since forever!"

He furrowed his brows as the American led him into the café whilst cheerfully humming along to the music which greeted them as they stepped inside.

The floor of the establishment was hard, polished wood, the tables and chairs resembling those from pubs in the late 1700's. The walls were of a pale cream colour, adorned with quotations from various prominent persons of that era encased in simple wooden frames. A polished counter stood in the far left corner, caged in on both sides by the displays of pastries, as well as a menu board which declared the day's specials. A door which presumably led into the kitchen was located on the far right, beside the last of the more private booths lining the right wall. On the wall behind the counter, a large flag—a replica of one used during the Revolution—was proudly hung, beneath which a quote was painted on the wall in beautiful, flowing black script—

_"'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.'"_ With another one of his trademark beaming grins, Alfred spun around, opening his arms wide in an excessively grandiose gesture and subsequently revealing the entirety of his odd uniform—a uniform which Arthur now recognised to be a replica of the uniform of the American soldiers during the American Revolution. "Welcome, Arthur Kirkland of Great Britain, to the awesome café known by the name of _Sons of Libertea!"_

Arthur blinked, slightly caught off guard by the boy's booming voice. (And his endearingly bright grin which he hadn't seen in weeks, but that was neither here nor there.) With a wry quirk of his lips, he walked further into the store, shaking his head.

"You do know that it's a right irony to bring a Briton to a place which oh-so-proudly endorses your freedom from the British Empire." He said dryly. Alfred simply chuckled in reply.

"Well, so's your presence in the land of the free, home of the brave in the first place, but you don't see me, a right born-and-bred American, complainin' 'bout it." He winked, slinging an arm around the smaller boy's shoulders as he steered him towards one of the booths.

The Briton couldn't deny the grin which claimed his lips at the comment. "Right you are, lad."

Alfred beamed at him, then, gesturing for him to slide into the seat—which he did so with some reluctance as the boy himself sat opposite him. "Ooh, is that a smile I see on sour Old Man Kirkland's face? Never thought I'd see the day!"

At that, Arthur immediately pulled his features into his customary scowl, persistently ignoring the flush which automatically rose to his cheeks. "I wasn't smiling, you damn wanker." He snapped, looking away. "And neither am I old—I'm only seventeen, for your information."

The ex-quarterback didn't seem fazed by his snappish behavior, not in the least. He chuckled, leaning forward as he rested his cheek on the palm of his hand. "Sure, sure, keep saying that. If you keep scowling like that you'll get wrinkles way too early, ya' know." Alfred's smile softened, slightly, and Arthur managed to look back just in time to see the way his gaze rested on him almost as if—

He tried to quench the rapid beat of his heart, let it settle back into its normal rhythm, to no avail.

Alfred was smiling at him, and his eyes were full of a quiet kind of adoration for the Briton who sat opposite him.

(Okay, this wasn't okay, not at all, and Arthur found it hard to breathe all of a sudden. It didn't help that his heart was beating all too fast and a blush had most likely coloured his cheeks that blasted scarlet they always did when he was flustered beyond compare.)

He hadn't known it then, back when he first moved here from over the pond, that he would find something he'd never had before. He was still hurting, still grieving over the loss of his parents and his younger brother Peter. He was still blaming himself for his reckless decisions, still blaming himself for never being enough. He hadn't known that he would find a sense of quiet acceptance here in a city almost filled to the brim with people whom he used to call 'uncivilised Yanks'.

He hadn't known that he would find himself, months after their deaths, falling in love and piecing himself back together again.

Arthur wasn't okay, not yet, but he found it in himself to try. (He still felt numb with pain and exhaustion as he cried when he woke up late in the night after barely a few hours of sleep, still unable to let go of the blade which tempted him to cut himself over and over again. But he was trying. And that was enough for now.) He found it in himself to try, try to become better, happier—because of this boy who smiled at him now, whose eyes held a sense of acceptance and quiet adoration for him and showed it through his boisterous words and gestures of affection.

Arthur found himself letting down his guard, even for a brief moment, and he smiled.

"See," Alfred reached out, placing a hand on Arthur's cheek, thumb resting at the corner of his smiling lips. His eyes held a silent sense of wonderment to them, gentle and unassuming, yet still Arthur's heart raced at the sight. "You're more beautiful when you smile."

His heart skipped a beat. His breath caught in his throat—and if Alfred wasn't seated on the opposite end of the booth, Arthur was sure he honestly would have grabbed him by the collar and done something he never would have done had this been a few months ago. (But then again, had this been a few months ago, he never would have met this American boy, never would have fallen in love. So that was irrelevant, honestly.)

As it was, as soon as Alfred withdrew his hand, Arthur scoffed, trying in vain to hide the fact that his heart was beating a mile a minute and a smile was tugging at the edges of his lips, which he tried to pull into a disapproving frown, to no avail. "'Beautiful.' I'm very much the farthest one can be from that, you git." He said, and yet an underlying current of affection seeped through in his words, much to his dismay.

(He hoped that Alfred didn't notice.)

Either the American was simply oblivious (which he doubted) or he was simply feigning ignorance (which he appreciated, if that was indeed the case), Alfred merely continued to smile at him, as if there was nothing wrong in the world, and only Arthur mattered in his eyes.

They didn't say anything else to each other as their orders arrived. (Apparently, Alfred had already ordered for them even before Arthur arrived, and it was on the house—why, exactly, the Briton could only guess, since the American was wearing the same uniform as the waiter who served them.)

They looked at each other with similar small smiles, lightly flushed cheeks, their gazes meeting and saying more than they could ever say out loud. And that was enough.

**—**

"Is there any chance of you explaining why none of you bothered me for approximately five weeks?"

Alfred paused in his footsteps, turning to look back at his companion. He'd already changed into his street clothes after his shift at _Libertea,_ and now the two of them were strolling along the pavement, aimless and only barely seeking to satisfy their internal wanderlust.

Arthur was right by his side, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket, the American's red, white and blue-striped scarf wrapped around his neck in order to ward away the cold. (He'd complained about the sudden drop of temperature when they'd stepped out of the café, shivering and cursing. Alfred lent him his scarf—or more accurately, he forced him to wear it, thereby ending the Briton's seemingly endless tirade about the chilly weather.)

He looked up at the American, an inquisitive look to his eyes as they continued to walk onward. (They didn't really have a particular destination in mind, but neither of them cared.)

Alfred laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, right. We didn't tell you." He grinned, showing off the dimples Arthur hadn't noticed until then.

"We got detention."

That got the Briton to stop, spinning round on his heel as he took a double-take, looking at the ex-quarterback with sheer disbelief written all over his face. "Say that again?"

The taller boy raised an eyebrow, humming cheerfully as he rocked back on his heels. "The SS got caught for that prank we did when we snuck you outta school to get you to the cemetery, and we got punished. T'wasn't even the fun kind of detention with Mr. Vargas—nope, we got stuck with Mr. Beilschmidt, and we spent the week before exams getting our asses kicked in an extreme workout which the old dude barely passed off as, quote-end-quote, 'detention'. Probably would've gone even longer, but even Mr. Beilschmidt understands the horrors of exams, so after having us go through his Training Camp of Hell for a week, he let us off."

He continued on his way, and Arthur hurried after him, silently cursing the fact that the other boy got a head start. "We didn't tell you, 'course, since Lizzy didn't want you to worry and she practically threatened the rest of us not to. She's hella scary with a frying pan, y'know. Then after that was exams week, and we all had to cram shit into our brains just to pass. Needless to say, coffee became our lifesavers, we had highlighter stains on every piece of our laundry for the month, and we all celebrated when it was over."

"That doesn't explain why I didn't see hide nor hair of any of you for the past three weeks, however," Arthur interjected thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair as the wind ruffled it even further. (He cringed at the thought of the Squadron inhaling more coffee than needed during exams; it was blasphemous. He himself had drank copious amounts of tea during that time, and he'd turned out fine, if not exhausted as all hell.)

Alfred grinned, then, and he placed an arm around the smaller boy's shoulders. "Ah, but that's 'cause of the café. _Sons of Libertea_ ’s actually owned by my Mom and Dad; it only opened 'bout two weeks ago, and most of the SS works the shifts there now when we got free time. And there's also one last thing..."

The Briton furrowed his brow as the American pulled him closer, rendering him unable to look up and see the expression on his face. However, the tone of his voice gave him away when he spoke: it seemed to be somewhat sheepish and mildly embarrassed. "I... kinda roped everyone in the SS into binge-watching musicals even before the start of Christmas break..."

Since Christmas break started nearly a week ago, then... Arthur shook himself out of his period of realisation, and he tried to look at the ex-quarterback, who still persistently kept a tight hold on him. He had shifted so that it appeared as if he was embracing the Briton from behind, arms wrapped around the smaller boy's upper torso. "Alfred—"

"Don't look at me. Please, please don't judge me," Alfred mumbled petulantly, and he buried his face into the junction of Arthur's neck and shoulder. (The smaller boy immediately blushed at the intimate gesture, much to his shame.) "It's embarrassing, I know. But I couldn't help it, y'know, since I needed people who'd understand—"

"Alfred, lad—" Arthur tried, once again, to set himself free, but to no avail. He internally sent his thanks up to heaven that there wasn't anyone else in sight in the lonely stretch of the street they had come upon; otherwise he could have possibly burnt up in sheer mortification. "Alfred, love, let me go. I understand, alright? Let me go, now, please."

The pet name slipped involuntarily from between his lips, and immediately, he felt his heart stop for a brief second.

Oh, _shit._

Alfred slowly let him go, and Arthur froze, unable to look at him as his cheeks flooded with colour. Oh, he was done for now, he knew it. His heart beat faster and faster, he felt his cheeks burning in shame at his mistake, and he shut his eyes tight, unable to look at the other boy because how can he—

Warmth, greeting his chilled skin, releasing him from the shackles of the cold, cold wind.

Two hands, one cupping his cheek, brushing against his jaw; the other carding through his messy hair, before settling gently against the back of his head, cradling it carefully.

His green eyes fluttered open, and his lips parted, poised to whisper an apology, something, anything at all—

Alfred was smiling; gentle, unassuming, loving and kind—and then those smiling lips were soon pressed against his own, silently saying the words they both knew.

Arthur closed his eyes, savouring the warmth as he reached up to hold him close, holding him and letting the silence convey the truth in their hearts.

It was Alfred who pulled away first, still smiling as he rested his forehead against Arthur's, kissing the edge of his mouth. His voice was soft, the exact opposite of his usual boisterous demands, as if speaking any louder than a murmur would destroy the peaceful lull which had settled between them.

_"'Love doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints: it takes, and it takes, and it takes, and we keep loving anyway. We laugh and we cry and we break and we make our mistakes and if there's a reason I'm by your side when so many have tried, then I'm willing to wait for it...'"_

Arthur looked at him with his green, green eyes, into those blue eyes which said the words both of them knew.

_’I love you.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> _Notes:_  
>  The idea for the café, _Sons of Libertea,_ was actually inspired by a _Hamilton_ fanfiction which goes by the same name here in ao3. The title for this chapter, as well as the lyrics of the song Alfred sings comes from the song, ; _"Wait For It",_ sung by Leslie Odom Jr. in the musical, _"Hamilton"._ I only altered one line to fit it better into the plot, but most of it is still from the original.


	10. n i n e

n i n e

_« s t a y b y m y s i d e , t h a t w o u l d b e e n o u g h »_

"Art—"

"Don't say anything," he interjected even before the last syllable of his name left the taller boy's lips. A quick, mildly bashful glance up towards those blue eyes revealed the signs, the smallest signals of the fact that Alfred was about to protest.

"But—"

"Let me rephrase that," Arthur sighed, "Alfred, for both of our sakes, please don't say anything stupid."

Regardless of the pout that was surely adorning the other boy's lips (which he surely wasn't thinking about, no, not at all—not even the way those lips had been firmly pressed against his own barely a minute ago), the Briton refused to back down. He really didn't want to look into his eyes and see how easily he—no, _both_ of them—had come completely, irrevocably undone when they'd kissed. He didn't want him to see how he was now fully within the other boy's power, to do with what he will.

He didn't want him to see how he loved him—fiercely, desperately, selfishly. (For how could he be enough? How could he _ever_ be enough? How—)

A sigh brushed past the curve of his cheek, barely lingering upon his lips before Alfred leaned in once again, capturing his mouth in another kiss—another silent promise, another quiet confession of emotions which had risen between them. Arthur stifled a surprised gasp—or perhaps it might have possibly been a choked sob; he couldn't quite tell at the moment. He grasped at the taller boy's broad shoulders, initially intending to use the leverage in order to push him away, yet his fingers loosened their grip, falling flat against the leather.

He was drowning, drowning in every sensation and every emotion, rendered helpless beneath every burning touch.

"You didn't say that I couldn't kiss you again," Alfred whispered as he pulled away. Arthur fought to open his eyes (when had they even closed?) in order to look at the other boy.

Both of their cheeks were painted ruddy, breaths short and uneven. Alfred smiled at him, shy but sweet, and Arthur let himself return the gesture with the smallest quirk of his own lips.

On this cold winter's day in December, they walked down the streets of a quiet town. With each step, their hands brushed against each other's, hesitant, before they reached out and their fingers intertwined.

He wouldn't say it, and he knew that the American wouldn't, either, but it was enough.

It was enough just to stay by his side.

**—**

Whatever he expected when Alfred had told him that they were going somewhere in order to meet up with the rest of the Suicide Squadron, it definitely wasn't this.

"Al, you _dummkopf,_ what took you so long?"

A pillow emblazoned with the typical stars-and-stripes pattern Arthur had come to associate with the young American came sailing through the air at their entrance, landing pathetically short of its target. He blinked, still loosely keeping a hold on the taller boy's hand.

Well... that was unexpected. But then again, everything about the Squadron wasn't exactly part of the norm.

The Briton didn't have to wait long in order to get an explanation as to why a pillow had been catapulted into their faces. A familiar figure stood in the doorway, single-handedly barricading their path to the living room.

Gilbert "His Awesomeness" Beilschmidt himself had come to greet them, which Arthur found to be rather amusing. His arms were crossed over a somewhat lean torso wearing a long-sleeved black shirt which bore a gold, star-shaped logo with the word, _”Hamilton"_ etched across it, paired with dark jeans and pale blue socks, which were decorated with small yellow chicks. (The Briton could never understand the so-called Prussian boy's fascination with chickens, honestly.)

Alfred laughed, raising his free hand in a 'peace' sign. "C'mon, Gil, you know that I still had to finish my shift at _Libertea_ before Art and I could come." He said, almost imperceptibly squeezing Arthur's hand in a silent gesture of reassurance. His shoulders immediately relaxed at the gesture, which surprised the Briton, as he hadn't even noticed that he had tensed at Gilbert's arrival.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, tossing the tennis ball-sized, yellow stuffed toy in the shape of a chick before catching it one-handedly. (He carried that thing everywhere, though it was the first time Arthur had seen the legendary 'Gilbird' he'd heard of through the rumours of the SS. Nobody was sure why Gilbert carried the toy everywhere, but it was well-known how a hit from it could potentially bruise a person when thrown with enough force, or even provoke a battle between the Royals and the Squadron.)

"Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that, Al," the Prussian snickered, "we both know you were late since you were making out with your precious Brit."

The comment had an instant effect: both young men blushed, and Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling out his protest—because, then again, it was the truth, despite whatever denial he could come up with. (Though he wouldn't go as far as to say that they had been 'making out'—they'd only kissed twice, not including that not-kiss from the month before.) He settled for remaining silent, still gripping Alfred's hand to keep from spluttering and subsequently embarrassing himself in front of the apparent leaders of the notorious Suicide Squadron.

Their reaction, it seemed, wasn't what Gilbert had expected, however—he stared at them, taking note of their flushed cheeks and the now obvious way both of them clung to each other's hands. It wasn't long before a shit-eating grin took over his features, and he all but whooped in triumph. "Damn, son, you've got skills!" He crowed, pumping his fist in the air as he craned his neck back, presumably to call upon someone in the living room. "Oi, Lizzy, come over here, will ya'? Our boy Al's got himself a Brit for a boyfriend!"

An uproar sounded from the living room as a female's voice screeched above them all, _"WHAT?!?",_ and then there were three figures pushing the triumphant Prussian away from the doorway. Alfred and Arthur gaped as an equally triumphant Elizaveta, a bewildered Matthew, and a quietly excited Kiku looked expectantly at them both. She grinned at them, casting a glance at their intertwined hands, before she squealed happily, jumping up and down. "I knew it! I knew it!"

To say that Arthur was confused (and frightened) by his friend's behavior was an understatement. "...Eliza, lass, are you alright?" He asked hesitantly, somewhat afraid of her next (rather unnatural) reaction.

The brunette merely grinned at him as the Asian boy beside her kept snapping pictures with a small smile. "Oh, I'm fine, Arthur dear," she giggled, and if he hadn't already been disturbed by her reaction, he would be now.

Arthur looked up at the American at his side, who returned his concerned look with a nervous smile of his own. Seeing the exchange, Matthew stepped forward, tapping the Hungarian girl on the shoulder and sending a look towards the Japanese boy, who subsequently lowered his phone with a nod. "Now, now, guys, let's relax, eh?" He said quietly, shooting a tiny, reassuring smile at the two, which instantly lessened the tension in the hall. "I'm sure they meant to tell us later, but since the cat's out of the bag now we should probably let them into the living room first. Then they can tell us more if they want to."

With compromise done and the promise of more details settling the curiosity of a certain pair (i.e. Elizaveta and Kiku), the three headed back into the room from whence they came, leaving Alfred and Arthur alone once more.

The Briton turned towards his— he stopped, thinking about it. What _was_ Alfred to him? They had kissed—several times, in fact, and he... Arthur fought the urge to blush as the thought surfaced in his mind.

He cared deeply for the endearing American boy, but the question was—did Alfred care for him in the same way?

"Man, I didn't mean for it to come out like that," Alfred mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. His cheeks were coloured an adorable pink, and he kept looking everywhere, anywhere that wasn't the Briton who faced him now. "I mean, I knew I'd tell you eventually, but my friends just had to get ahead of me, didn't they..."

The way Alfred seemed to fidget out of sheer nervousness got to the Briton, and he suppressed a nervous smile, though his heart was beating faster with every second that ticked by. "What did you mean to tell me, Alfred?"

Those blue eyes looked down, directly into his own, and Arthur felt his heart skip a beat. (Again.) "I—I, well, I really—" Frustration simmered beneath the boy's features as he stammered, seemingly unable to say what he wanted. "Arthur, I— I just—"

Arthur sighed, his patience slowly but surely wearing thin. "Alfred, I swear to God, if you don't tell me what you want to say within the next three seconds—"

Sheer frustration fueled his veins as the American grabbed the smaller boy's shoulders, pushing him against the wall as his arms caged him in. Caught off guard by the sudden movement, Arthur opened his mouth to protest, to say anything at all, only to be stopped short once again as the ex-quarterback leaned in, pressing his lips to his own in a brief kiss.

"I love you." He finally said as he pulled away, and damn if both of their cheeks weren't blushing a furious shade of scarlet as they stared at each other. Alfred looked at him intently, as if nothing else mattered except for him. "Damn it, Arthur Kirkland, I love you. Is that enough?"

His voice was still breathless, tinged with his earlier frustration, but Arthur knew what he truly meant.

_'Is love enough of a reason for you to keep on living?'_

He smiled, for he knew the answer.

"I love you, too. So please... Stay by my side," Arthur whispered as he reached up, placing a hand on his cheek. "That would be enough."

Alfred leaned forward, resting his forehead against his as he lowered his hands to rest against the smaller boy's waist. They stayed that way for a brief moment, before a peal of quiet laughter slipped past the taller's lips.

"I suppose this means that you're really my boyfriend now?" He asked, to which Arthur returned his beaming grin with a small, satisfied one of his own. The Briton reached up, pressing a kiss to the tip of the American's nose.

"Yes. Yes it does, love."

**—**

Elizaveta had a shit-eating grin plastered all over her face as the couple entered, hand in hand with a matching blush on both of their cheeks.

"When's the wedding, Al?" A voice called, and Arthur looked around to spot Maria, one of the girls who had been part of the catastrophic game of Capture the Flag. She was grinning at the two of them, happily sitting between a brunet with green eyes—which the Briton recognised as a part of the Squadron—and Feliciano, who was in turn offering a plate of pasta to everyone in his proximity.

Alfred sputtered at the tease, blushing madly. "Wh-what—"

Everyone in the room laughed, and pillows were tossed at the poor American. He huffed, childishly pouting at Arthur when he, too, had stifled a laugh. Now that the Briton noticed, he looked around the living room of Alfred's home (for that was where they were), spotting the mess the Suicide Squadron had made of the spacious area.

The couches had been pushed towards the back wall and mattresses padded the floor, piled high with pillows and duvets for every person. A glass coffee table stood proudly in the middle of the mess of mattresses, piled high with bowls of various snacks. Out from the top of a box set beneath it peeked the tops of several bottles of sodas. A large television was mounted on the wall, surrounded by its accompanying sound system.

Arthur blinked, staring at the entirety of the Suicide Squadron as they lounged on the pillow-and-blanket forts they had made for themselves. He looked at Alfred, who had now recovered from the teasing and stood by his side. "Is this normal?" He asked dryly.

"Hm?" The American glanced at him, as if figuring out if he'd heard it right. It wasn't long before he grinned, nodding his head. "Oh, yeah. But we haven't really been doing this sort of thing for a long time; we just started last week."

Alfred beamed at him as he gestured for the both of them to take their places on a relatively free spot on a mattress. Arthur followed as the American plopped down onto his chosen place, grabbing a thick, fuzzy turquoise blanket and pulling it around to cover both of themselves.

Gilbert emerged from the door opposite from whence Alfred and Arthur had come from (which led out to the entry hall), waving around a rather colourful wheel and a small brown box. He was grinning, as if excited for something. "Alright, alright, you little chicks,"—his greeting elicited a chorus of groans, which he skillfully ignored—"since Al and his prissy Brit are here, it's time for our awesome game, appropriately dubbed 'HamilJam' by the awesome me!"

"I didn't even know Gil knew the word 'appropriately'," Alfred muttered beneath his breath, to which Arthur had to pass off a peal of laughter as a cough.

"So, who wants to start?" The Prussian pretended to look around the room, before his gaze landed upon Elizaveta, who had raised her hand and was waving it enthusiastically. "Yeah, Lizzy?"

The brunette giggled as she stood up, followed by a bubbly Feliciano and Maria, who was obviously trying to stifle her laughter. They walked towards the albino, who held up the prop with a grin. With a nod to her compatriots, Elizaveta reached out a hand, spinning the wheel.

Gilbert hummed, looking at the pink section the arrow had landed upon. "Nice. Okay, Lizzy, you got 'Angelica Schuyler'—damn, you're lucky." He muttered, as if in after thought. "Right, Feli, you go next."

It was the violet section this time. "'Samuel Seabury', huh? Always hated that guy. Maria?"

The blood red section of the wheel. "Oh, damn, you always get your namesake, huh?" Gilbert laughed, which earned him a glare from the Filipina. "Alright, fine, you can stand next to Liz and Feli, Ms. 'Maria Reynolds'."

On and on it went as the Prussian held out the wheel before the rest of the Suicide Squadron. Confused, Arthur turned towards Alfred, who was quite literally jumping in his seat. "What are they doing?"

The American looked at him, before realisation lit up in his eyes. "I didn't tell ya', did I?" As the Briton shook his head, Alfred grinned. "We're playing a game we kinda invented after we watched some musicals. Yesterday we did _'Heathers',_ the other day we did _’Les Misérables',_ and today we're doing _'Hamilton',_ which is why Gil called it 'HamilJam'. We use the wheel to assign the characters we're gonna play, and in that box"—he pointed at the brown box Gilbert was holding—"there are some slips of paper with the titles of the song we're supposed to sing, or, in the case of some _'Hamilton'_ songs, we gotta rap."

Arthur furrowed his brow, biting at the inside of his cheek. He had heard of the musical _'Hamilton'_ due to its popularity amongst the students of his old school, and he had listened to a few of its songs, but he was still rather uncertain. "Do I have to join?"

The taller boy's smile softened, and he placed a small kiss on the other boy's forehead. "You don't hafta if you don't want to, Art," he said, "though I really want to hear you sing."

He sighed, leaning against his boyfriend. (He stifled the urge to shiver at the thought. Christ, this boy was his boyfriend—he couldn't even fathom how happy that thought made him.) "For you, I'll try, love."

That had Alfred grinning once again. "Really?" He asked, which Arthur returned with a small smile and a nod.

"Right, then, since you've got it all sorted out, it's your turn to spin the wheel, lovebirds." Gilbert stood over the two, casting a shadow as he smirked rather mischievously.

Alfred looked up at him with a smile of his own, standing up. "If ya' say so," he said easily, reaching out to spin the wheel.

The arrow remained still, a golden, immovable marker as the colours blurred past, faster and faster, before it started to slow down—

The wheel stopped, and the golden arrow was pointing to a vibrant, emerald green section with the words 'Alexander Hamilton' clearly written across its surface. Alfred was grinning, triumphant, and he reached down to pull Arthur up to his feet.

"Congrats, Al," Gilbert remarked, his features still painted with the mischievous grin he had been sporting when he had first addressed the couple. "This means that Art here will be playing 'Eliza Schuyler'."

That got Arthur to whip his head around so fast he was surprised he didn't get whiplash. He recognised the name, and he certainly wasn't pleased. "What?" He demanded, "Why am I playing as a bloody woman?"

The Prussian had the nerve to lift his shoulders up in a nonchalant shrug, and he set down the wheel on a forgotten end table behind the couple. "Hey, it's not my fault. All the other characters except for those two were already chosen even before I went to the two of you. It was just a matter of who went first in spinning the wheel, and who would first get which role out of the two. Al got 'Hamilton', so of course that only left the role of 'Eliza' to you."

It was a logical standpoint, Arthur had to admit, and though he wasn't happy about the role appointed to him, he hadn't any choice in the matter, nor did he want to ruin the game for everyone. With a sigh, he looked up at Gilbert, lifting his shoulders up in a shrug. "Fine, I'll take it. Let's start the game."

Alfred smiled at him, and they all sat back down on the mattress as Gilbert headed back to the center, picking up a bluetooth speaker and his phone before he sat down as well. "Right, so, here's the cast for the HamilJam today," the albino began, shaking the small brown box in one hand as he looked around at the assembled teenagers in the room.

"Al will be 'Alexander Hamilton'. The Schuyler Sisters will be: Arthur as 'Eliza', Liz as 'Angelica', and since it's a double role in the original musical, Maria will be playing both 'Peggy' and 'Maria Reynolds'." Gilbert paused, looking at the others. They all nodded. "Okay. The awesome me will be playing as 'Aaron Burr', Feli as 'Samuel Seabury', mein bruder Ludwig as 'Hercules Mulligan' and 'James Madison', Toni will be 'John Laurens' and 'Philip Hamilton', and Franny will be both 'Marquis de Lafayette' and 'Thomas Jefferson'. Oh, and Matt's gonna be both 'King George the Third' and 'Charles Lee'. All clear?"

Once again, all of them nodded.

Arthur leaned over, whispering into Alfred's ear. "Remind me why I decided to join in on playing a role in this game which involves a musical about your country's Revolution."

He merely grinned, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend's waist. "That's 'cause you love me," he replied in a lighthearted murmur. Needless to say, both of them blushed at the comment.

"So, our first song is..." Gilbert paused dramatically, pulling out a slip of paper. He smirked, "Alright! It's _'The Story of Tonight'!"_ He reached for the bluetooth speaker, turning it on, and a familiar melody began.

_"I may not live to see our glory,"_ Alfred sang softly, raising a mug, filled to the brim with coffee. (Where he got it, Arthur didn't know.)

_"I may not live to see our glory,"_ echoed three voices—Gilbert's brother, Ludwig, who sat beside Feliciano, the brunet with green eyes (Arthur briefly recalled him to have been called 'Toni'), and the annoying French bastard, Francis. They all repeated the movement, raising their own glasses, each filled with their preferred beverages.

_"But I will gladly join the fight,"_ Alfred was smiling, an arm resting around the Briton's shoulders, and he gladly leaned against him.

_"But I will gladly join the fight."_ The three repeated softly.

_"And when our children tell our story..."_ As Alfred sang the line, the rest of the Squadron raised their eyebrows, looking between him and his boyfriend, the latter of whom had hidden his face in the taller American's shoulder to hide his blushing cheeks at the smug grins on their friends' faces.

_"And when our children tell our story..."_

_"They'll tell the story of tonight."_ A nudge to his side had Arthur pulling away, frowning at the ex-quarterback, who smiled at him and offered him a mug full of tea. A slight smile tugged at the Briton's lips, and he accepted it gratefully with a glance at Matthew, who had apparently gone and prepared it before the Canadian sat down beside his cousin.

_"Let's have another round tonight,"_ Ludwig rumbled, an almost imperceptible smile on his lips as Feliciano clung to his arm, singing along.

_"Let's have another round tonight,"_ Francis hummed, smirking when the Arthur's gaze met with his as he looked around the room.

_"Let's have another round tonight."_ Alfred raised his mug once again, grinning at his friends before he took a sip of his coffee. As he did so, the brunet stood up, raising a tubular pastry (Arthur later learned that it was called a 'churro') as he smiled, slightly.

_”Raise a glass to freedom, something they can never take away. No matter what they tell you..."_ 'Toni' looked down at his friends, offering the rest of his churros, which the Frenchman took. _"Raise a glass to the four of us—"_

__

__

_"Tomorrow there'll be more of us,"_ sang the Frenchman and the German sophomore, to be joined by the brunet, who sat back down next to them. _"Telling the story of tonight..."_

__

__

_"They'll tell the story of tonight,"_ Alfred echoed, smiling as Francis raised his arms and rested them on Ludwig and Toni's shoulders as they sang together.

_"Raise a glass to freedom, something they can never take away. No matter what they tell you... Raise a glass to the four of us, tomorrow there'll be more of us... Telling the story of tonight..."_

They were all smiling, passing around the snacks, and even those who weren't part of the song had begun to sing along until the last bars of the song faded out into silence.

After a brief pause, Gilbert grinned, shaking the brown box. "Alright, alright, that's what I'm talkin' about!"

The rest of the Squadron groaned in response. "Gil, please," Toni rolled his eyes, "we told you to stop with the quotes."

"Hey, you can't blame me, _'Satisfied'_ is an awesome song!" The Prussian argued, "Not as awesome as I am, but still awesome!"

"Just pull out whatever song comes next, eh," Matthew said quietly, and the albino huffed some more before he complied. This time, a shit-eating grin overcame the young man's features, and he turned, unmistakably, towards where Alfred and Arthur were sitting.

"My, my, this is awesome," He laughed, waving the slip of paper. "Get ready to hear the lovebirds singing, people! Our next song is _'Helpless'!"_

The Squadron cheered, some even throwing up pillows in their excitement. (Read: Elizaveta and Maria.)

Arthur was ready to kill the albino. Honestly. But he wouldn't, not yet, since Alfred was sending him pleading looks, and he had promised to play along. So play along, he would. The Briton sighed, pulling out his phone in order to search for the lyrics to the song. He didn't have it memorised, nor was he sure that his voice would do it justice, but he'd try not to embarrass himself and his boyfriend, at least, and he hoped that it would be enough.

He heard Gilbert laugh to himself as he pressed 'play' on his phone, and a rather upbeat melody began to filter through the bluetooth speaker.

The girls began, humming along to the melody as Arthur took a deep, steadying breath and began, _"Boy, you got me helpless... Look into your eyes, and the sky's the limit, I'm helpless—"_ he looked up at Alfred, smiling nervously at him as he sang, _"Down for the count, and I'm drownin' in 'em."_

__

__

He felt it before he noticed it—Alfred leaned in, pressing his lips to his forehead, and Arthur could feel his cheeks flaming crimson as he continued to sing. _"I have never been the type to try and grab the spotlight. We were at a revel with some rebels on a hot night; laughin' at my sister as she's dazzling the room, then you walked in and my heart went 'Boom!' Tryin' to catch your eye from the side of the ballroom, everybody's dancin' and the band's top volume—Grind to the rhythm as we wine and dine, grab my sister and whisper, 'Yo, this one's mine.'"_

He looked at the rest of the Squadron, most of whom were smirking at the two of them as he sang. His gaze met with Elizaveta's own, and she smiled at him, her hands forming the shape of a heart.

_"My sister made her way across the room to you. And I got nervous, thinking, 'What's she gonna do?' She grabs you by the arm, I'm thinkin' 'I'm through,' then you look back at me, and suddenly I'm..."_

Arthur leaned against his boyfriend, whose arms were carefully wrapped around him, and he looked up, into those blue eyes he'd fallen for as he sang softly, _"Helpless, oh, look at those eyes.. I know I'm down for the count and I'm drownin' in 'em..."_

Alfred smiled at him, before he looked away, towards Elizaveta. _"Where are you taking me?"_

__

__

_"I'm about to change your life,"_ she replied with a giggle and a wink that she directed towards a flustered Arthur.

"Then by all means, lead the way." The American grinned, turning back towards the Briton.

Arthur almost, almost scowled, but reminded himself that he had promised to play along. _"Elizabeth Schuyler,"_ he ground out almost acerbically, still not pleased that he had been forced into a female's role. _"It's a pleasure to meet you."_

Alfred tilted his head, glancing at Elizaveta. _"Schuyler?"_

_"My sister,"_ Liz grinned, raising a hand in a 'peace' sign towards the irritated Briton.

_"Thank you for all your service,"_ Arthur spoke, keeping his voice as steady as possible when Alfred grinned at him, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

_"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it,"_ he whispered into his ear.

_"I'll leave you to it."_ Liz was laughing, Arthur knew it—he glanced at her, and she fluttered her fingers at him in a delicate wave as she smirked. He fought back the urge to scowl, once again as he tried to continue singing.

_"One week later, I'm writin' a letter nightly, now my life gets better, every letter that you write me. Laughin' at my sister, 'cause she wants to form a harem—"_ he stopped reading the lyrics, shooting a look at Elizaveta, who forced out her lines amidst her laughter.

_"I'm just sayin', if you really loved me, you would share him!"_

__

__

_"Ha!"_ Dear God, Arthur could feel his cheeks burning in mortification the longer he was forced to sing through this song. _"Two weeks later in the living room stressin', my father's stone-faced while you're asking for his blessin'. I'm dying inside, as you wine and dine, and I'm tryin' not to cry 'cause there's nothing that your mind can't do..."_

He looked back at Alfred, who was smiling at him reassuringly. _"My father makes his way across the room to you... I panic for a second, thinking, 'We're through.' But then he shakes your hand and says, 'Be true.' And you turn back to me smiling, and I'm—"_

It was then that in front of every single person who comprised the Suicide Squadron, Alfred F. Jones leaned in and impulsively kissed him.

Breathless from the shock of the sudden action, Arthur immediately gave in to his automatic response, which was to punch the taller boy on the shoulder as he continued singing. _"Helpless... I'm helpless... Down for the count and I'm drownin' in 'em."_

Alfred grinned at him, holding him close as he began. _"Eliza, I don't have a dollar to my name, an acre of land, a troop to command, a dollop of fame. All I have's my honor, a tolerance for pain, a couple of college credits and my top-notch brain. Insane, your family brings out a different side of me; Peggy confides in me, Angelica tried to take a bite of me."_ —At those lines, he cut a glance towards Maria, who smiled at him, and at Elizaveta, who winked at him playfully— _"No stress, my love for you is never in doubt. We'll get a little place in Harlem and we'll figure it out. I've been livin' without a family since I was a child; my father left, my mother died, I grew up buckwild. But I'll never forget my mother's face, that was real."_

He reached up, placing a hand on the Briton's cheek. _"And long as I'm alive, Eliza, swear to God, you'll never feel so..."_

__

__

_"Helpless..."_ they both sang softly, their foreheads resting against each others as their hands intertwined.

And that was enough.


	11. t e n

t e n

_« h o w d o w e r e w r i t e t h e s t a r s ? »_

Contrary to popular belief, Arthur Kirkland did know how to cook. He simply found that giving meals he purposefully wrecked to people he loathed served as an effective excuse to drive them away.

(Seriously, the fact that the Home Ec lab's oven caught fire hadn't been his fault at all—it was that blasted Frog's. Arthur had only, ah, _mistakenly_ set the temperature far too high and left it too long when he'd gone to pummel said Frenchman's arse. Served the wanker right for attempting to steal a damn kiss from the Briton.)

Therefore, barring that one event, Arthur certainly had credibility for this 'job', and it was an easy one... not to mention it was a great source of amusement.

"Tell me again why the hell we're doing this?"

"Because you're a lovesick twat who needs to get a grip?"

His teasing smirk only received a venomous glare from a pair of sullen, crimson eyes, before the Prussian teenager turned away after elbowing the devious Briton.

"Shut the fuck up, Kirkland, you of all people should know that I'm not the only lovesick one here," Gilbert grumbled, casting a glance at the doorway to the kitchen they currently were in, all thanks to the kind Lieselotte. (Arthur had tried to call her 'Ms. Beilschmidt', but the woman wasn't having it and had insisted him to call her by her given name. He'd reluctantly done so; after all, he'd heard stories of the woman, as the only sister of the frightening assistant principal, Dr. Aldrich Beilschmidt, and the mother of two particularly stubborn teenagers.)

"Where's your loverboy, anyway?" Despite his teasing tone, Gilbert kept looking over at the oven, where the result of their two-hour-long efforts lay in the embrace of the (hopefully) correct temperature. "I didn't think Al could take even a day away from you." 

Arthur crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. 

It was true—though it had been barely two months since he and the American had started dating, there hadn't been a day wherein Alfred hadn't contacted him one way or another. They were in constant orbit around each other, so to speak, and even his older brother, Camden, had taken notice the one time he'd walked in on them lying on Arthur's bed with their arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined. It had been as if they didn't have any intention of letting go anytime soon. (That incident had left Alfred in a perpetual state of embarrassment since then whenever he had to drop off Arthur at his home after school, much to the amusement of both Kirklands.)

Eventually, he lifted his shoulders up in a nonchalant shrug. "He probably slept in," the Briton replied as he ran a hand through his hair. "Who knows how many times I've had to remind the idiot to stop repeatedly watching those bloody musicals late into the night."

Gilbert snorted, tapping his fingers on the countertop. "Seems like he loves those more than he loves ya'."

His lips quirked into a mischievous smirk, and, in one swift motion, he tossed a handful of flour right into the albino's face, sending him into a coughing fit. "Riiight," he snickered, "and what about you, you tosser? I don't suppose you love those musicals more than you love Matthew?"

At the mention of a certain Canadian, the Prussian's pale cheeks flushed an interesting crimson. "That's different—"

"How is it any different?" A familiar voice interjected, and Arthur's heart skipped a beat as an arm wound around his waist, pulling him close to a warm torso. A kiss was pressed to his temple, and Arthur looked up to see his boyfriend smiling a knowing grin at one of the notorious leaders of the Suicide Squadron. "Hey there, sweetheart," Alfred greeted as he glanced at the Briton within his arms, the look in those eyes warming his heart and making his breath catch in his throat.

A groan cut through their moment, and Arthur immediately shot the perpetrator a deadly glare. "Stop it with your damn cheesiness, _dummkopfs,"_ Gilbert muttered spitefully, "I think I'm about to be sick from all your scheisse."

"So you want us to bring our attention back to your love life?" Arthur raised a brow in challenge, before he faked a gasp of realisation, "Oh, wait, never mind, you don't have one because you've been a bloody awkward bastard when faced with your 'beloved'."

Alfred stifled a laugh at the look on his friend's face, deciding to intervene before blood could be shed in the pristine kitchen. (Lieselotte would kill them if she saw a mess made of her treasured sanctuary.) "Artie, babe, chill. That's why you've been helping Gil with his Valentine's Day gift for Mattie, right?"

The sandy blond male only scoffed in return, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, we'd all be better off if 'His Awesomeness' could even get up his bloody courage and just 'fess up."

Gilbert's features seemed fixed in an expression which lingered in an in-between state, as if he couldn't decide to settle on a grimace or a bitter pout. After a while, the Prussian let out a huff, deciding against his previous choices and settled on scowling at his contender. _"Ja, ja,_ as if you had it easy when you confessed your feelings to your loverboy here."

"To be fair," Arthur replied, his tone saturated with such snarkiness that the American was becoming more and more aware of the possibility of bloodshed with every word that was exchanged, "Alfred was the one who confessed first." 

Both teenagers looked at each other, meeting gazes of such intensity that the tension in the room seemed to escalate with every second. Alfred swallowed thickly, praying to any force out there to save him from what seemed to be an inevitable conflict—

A sudden tinkling sound cut through the tense silence, drawing their attention to the oven. 

The American let out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been withholding as Arthur pulled out of his arms. Immediately, he felt the loss, and he had to stop himself from pulling the Briton back into an embrace as the other boy pulled on a pair of oven mitts. 

Carefully, Arthur opened the oven, taking out a tray of perfect cookies-and-cream cupcakes. He turned towards the albino with a smug grin as he set the tray down on the counter, pulling off the mitts. "Pay up, Beilschmidt." 

With a slew of some choice German words (Arthur was sure that it was profanity) muttered beneath his breath, Gilbert grudgingly drew out his wallet. "Here, _arschloch,"_ he grumbled, slamming down a pair of fifty dollar bills on the counter, which the Briton gleefully swiped and swiftly tucked into his own wallet.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Gilbert," Arthur grinned, reaching up to pat the taller teenager on the cheek as condescendingly as he could. His hand was slapped away, but that didn't deter his grin, which now rivaled the Cheshire Cat.

Ah, sweet, sweet victory, indeed.

**—**

"Please tell me those were just plain old cupcakes and nobody was harmed when you made those." Alfred lounged on the blankets, casting a wary glance at his boyfriend. At the smirk that adorned the Briton's lips, he scooted a bit farther away, putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Artie, babe, you know you gotta tell me when you murder somebody. I can't help you hide the body if you don't—"

A swift punch to his shoulder shut him up. 

"You're an idiot," Arthur muttered, the bite to his words considerably lessened by the fond undertone to his voice. "Gilbert bet a hundred dollars that I would burn the cupcakes because apparently, he's a git who listens to the Frog's story about the Home Ec lab's oven. And no, unfortunately, no one was harmed while we made the cupcakes."

The American exaggerated breathing a sigh of relief in response, which earned him another punch. He lowered his hands, carefully rubbing at the maltreated spot with a wince. Damn, no matter what anyone said, his boyfriend really was no joke when it came to violence. 

They fell silent, eventually moving closer to each other as they pulled the blankets around their shoulders, looking up at the night sky. Arthur leaned against Alfred's side as their hands found each other, fingers twining together in a loose hold. 

They were sitting out on the terrace of the Jones' house, surrounded by piles of thick blankets and a few scattered pillows. It had been Alfred's idea to go stargazing since he'd found out that the Briton shared his interest in the stars—just a simple, quiet date so they could spend more time with each other after the hectic back-to-school-after-the-blessed-winter-break rush had gone by.

Arthur rested his head against the crook between the American's neck and shoulder, nestled comfortably into the taller boy's side. He could hear every breath, every beat of his boyfriend's heart—feel the rise and fall of his chest, that all-encompassing warmth. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

His voice started off slow and soft, a mere whisper in the cool night air.

_"'You know I want you, it's not a secret I try to hide.'"_ A half-smile was his response as Alfred shifted in order to cast a confused look at him. _"'I know you want me, so don't keep saying our hands are tied. You claim it's not in the cards; fate is pulling you miles away, and out of reach from me. But you're here in my heart, so who can stop me if I decide that you're my destiny?'"_

The stars shone bright overhead, small jewels scattered across the seemingly endless skies. A sigh escaped from between his lips, and Alfred raised their clasped hands, pressing a series of kisses upon Arthur's fingertips. A tell-tale flush swept across the Briton's cheeks at the sweet gesture, his voice faltering just the slightest as he continued to sing.

_"'What if we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine.. Nothing could keep us apart, you'd be the one I was meant to find.'"_ He smiled, lifting his free hand in order to caress his boyfriend's cheek. _"'It's up to you, and it's up to me, no one can say what we get to be. So why don't we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours...'"_

Arthur leaned in, brushing his lips against the very edge of the American's mouth. _"'Tonight.'"_

A shuddering breath forced its way out from Alfred's lungs, and already he could feel the familiar burn from within, yet still he forced a smile. _Not here. Not now._ He reached up with his free hand, winding his fingers into the Briton's messy blond hair, pulling him for a brief kiss. 

_"'You think it's easy,'"_ he murmured against his boyfriend's lips as they parted, shutting his eyes in a vain attempt to hide the onslaught of tears. No, he couldn't afford to be weak. He had to be Arthur's hero, and heroes weren't supposed to be weak. _"'You think I don't want to run to you. But there are mountains, and there are doors that we can't walk through.'"_

_"When do you plan on telling him,_ bruder?" _Gilbert leaned against the carved wood of the door he'd just shut behind him, and Alfred could feel the Prussian's concerned gaze burning through him. He shrugged, aware that his hands were shaking and he couldn't seem to see past the tears which were blurring his vision. "You have to tell him eventually."_

_He ran a hand through his hair, grabbing desperately at a few locks as if in doing so, the pain might help to anchor him to his bitter reality. "I won't." The ex-football quarterback let loose a short bark of laughter, raw and hoarse. "It's getting harder to hide this from him, but I have to, Gil. I have to be strong, I have to be—"_

_Alfred heard the loud, unforgiving slam of the albino's fist smashing into the hard wood before he felt it. A hand grabbed onto his sleeve, pulling him around to face a pair of crimson eyes. There was so much emotion crammed in a single gaze—so much grief and pain and— "You're a fucking idiot," Gilbert snarled, "you're only delaying the inevitable, Al. You'll only cause him more pain if you keep your situation a secret for much longer. You know that Kirkland can't stay blind to the truth forever."_

_"There_ isn't _a forever," he spat, freeing himself from his friend's grip. He turned away, pulling off his glasses as he carelessly wiped away the tears which threatened to escape from his control. "You know that better than anyone. Everything comes to an end, Gil, but I—" he paused, curling his trembling fingers into white-knuckled fists. "As long as I can protect him from the truth, I'll keep this a secret. Arthur doesn't have to know."_

_Gilbert looked at him, then, with an expression which didn't betray a single one of his thoughts, and yet it haunted the American all the same. "You're an idiot," he repeated once more, turning towards the door and pulling it open. Light spilled into Alfred's bedroom, illuminating the scattered documents and music sheets he'd thrown to the floor earlier on._

_"You can't always play hero, Al," he whispered, "when you can't even save yourself."_

He was smiling, but he knew it was false—just another one of the masks he put up, just another excuse to hide behind so no one could see how weak he really was deep inside. _"'I know you're wondering why because we're able to be just you and me within these walls..'"_

_"'But when we go outside, you're going to wake up and see that it was hopeless after all..'"_ Alfred looked into those green eyes, into the evergreen he'd always loved. It was so hard to keep from breaking, from tearing apart at the seams, from ripping off the masks he constantly wore and just tell him everything. But he couldn't—he couldn't tell Arthur that what he'd always known was a lie, a front he put up in his everyday life just so he can still say that there was nothing wrong, that he wasn't falling to pieces. 

_"'No one can rewrite the stars, how can you say you'll be mine?'"_ He looked up to the skies, up to the tiny specks of light which were scattered throughout the dark heavens, shimmering like jewels and shining down upon them from above. They were unchangeable, they were constant, they were off-limits to the hands of beings who were shackled to the earth. _"'Everything keeps us apart, and I'm not the one you were meant to find. It's not up to you, it's not up to me—when everyone tells us what we can be..'"_

_"'How can we rewrite the stars? Say that the world can be ours.. tonight..'"_ His blue eyes shone with unshed tears as he let out a shaky breath, pressing his lips to the Briton's forehead. I'm sorry.

Their voices mingled in soft harmony, quiet and bittersweet, and Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him close. _"'All I want is to fly with you,'" All I wanted was to be with you, but seems like I can't have that. "'All I want is to fall with you, so just give me all of you..'"_

He closed his eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of his boyfriend's heart, the constant rise and fall of his chest. _"'It feels impossible..'"_ Alfred murmured, to be contradicted by Arthur's voice whispering next to his ear, _"'it's not impossible..'"_

_"'Is it impossible?'"_ He gazed into those eyes, his lips pulled up into a bittersweet smile. _"'Say that it's possible... How do we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine..'"_

Arthur could tell there was something wrong. Those eyes could never lie, after all—every emotion could be read within those azure eyes, if one only had the patience to try. His brows furrowed in thought as he pressed a hand against his boyfriend's cheek, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to those lips which had professed his love, which had told him of the ghosts which haunted his past. _Dearest, please, tell me what's wrong. "'Nothing can keep us apart,'"_ he sang softly as he pulled away, brushing his lips against the curve of his cheekbone, _"''Cause you are the one I was meant to find.. It's up to you, and it's up to me—no one can say what we get to be...'"_

He looked into those blue eyes he loved so dearly, seeing the tears which gathered there, the pain and the sorrow within the bright azure. He kissed away the tears which fell from those eyes, which had fluttered closed in a futile attempt to hide the storm raging within. Alfred drew him into an embrace, grasping tightly onto his shirt, winding his fingers into the wayward locks of Arthur's hair as he sought out the Briton's lips, kissing him desperately—as though Arthur was the one who kept him together and if he let go he might fall to pieces. 

Alfred fell back, settling himself upon the blankets beneath them, pulling Arthur down with him. A pale hand caressed sun-kissed skin, and Arthur brushed his lips upon the American's own one last time. _"'Why don't we rewrite the stars?'"_ He whispered softly, brokenly. _Why can't you tell me what's wrong, Alfred? "'Changing the world to be ours..'"_

_"'You know I want you,'"_ His voice was but a murmur against the edge of the Briton's mouth as he stared into those green eyes—eyes which wanted nothing more than the truth which held his tongue and corroded his heart. _"'It's not a secret I try to hide. But I can't have you.. We're bound to break,'"_ Alfred reached up, cupping his boyfriend's cheek, _"'and my hands.. are tied...'"_

They fell silent, broken only by the song of the frigid night wind. His thumb wiped off a tear which threatened to escape from the Briton's control. 

"Hey," Alfred smiled—a smile which didn't reach his blue eyes—"I love you."

Arthur looked at him, wishing that he knew what it was which plagued his love's thoughts. _You don't have to pretend to be a hero. You don't have to be strong._ "I know," he replied quietly. _Just stay by my side, that would be enough._

He lay down beside his boyfriend, resting his head upon the American's chest. He could hear his heart beating to a rhythm which was so different and yet so similar to his own. Their hands found each other's, twining their fingers together in a desperate hold.

"Dearest," Arthur began, though he knew that he wouldn't get an answer, "is there something wrong?"

A pause. A sigh, and Alfred turned his head away.

"It's nothing, sweetheart," he replied, even as he felt the familiar ache stealing his breath away. "Nothing at all."

_I'm just a dead man walking, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought the angst was over, it's not. :)


End file.
